homesick for things that make me feel lonely. Like how different you are from me. It makes me so sad sometimes because it forces me to recognize how I just don't fit with other people. people like you, all hot blooded all wonder struck and careless. I watch you take moments and make them yours while we all scramble after you. Just to see them burn in between your fists. Homesick for things that make me tired. How I cried in the backseat in Oregon underneath the blanket so neither of the boys would know. Didn't make a goddamn sound. And in Colorado I slept between passive bodies of water and waited softly as I listened to strangers I would never know live their lives around ours. And I momentarily ached for them as I momentarily ache for many things that are sometimes sloppy and hopeless, like penny wishes, like begging loose stars to grant you dreams. You've asked me once if I ever did dangerous things. I instantly thought about the way the sky's mouth gaped at us that thursday after a wednesday when we didn't sleep and you said something like "Look at the way it's opening up for us like we could jump into it" and how later you'd say "I like the way you sound in the mornings" I thought about the things I said that got lost in the cross fire, bits and pieces splayed chaotically through out the years of our noise. How you always knew when to look at me like you could love me and never look back. How did you always know when to do that? How I shot the song that rose between us like plumes of smoke. How I pieced our parts together for worse and for better because we were sadder songs before with harder words that hit like side ways rain and slammed into themselves like mistakes. I chased after people with such a sincerity it could split stars, splinter sunlight, I could fracture darkness with it. But you wouldn't believe me. You never really knew about dangerous things.