We stood on an ivory tower built up brick by brick with porcelain words. Fragile, discussing ever afters or perfect disasters. Discussing the moon haze night and the lives of the people below and pretending neither of us noticed we were the song stuck in each other’s heads and reflecting in each other’s eyes. But we did because you were the playlist to my summer. You sighed to the sky and said you didn’t want to leave. I said “I know” like some Han Solo knockoff because I am too scared to say things back. So we did a few more slow dances in our heads then walked down a spiral staircase into broken butterfly wings and drawn out goodbyes.
He’s shining when he walks into a room. And that other boy, he’s the one who tells her she’s beautiful.
That one, she’s half in love and starstruck in the light.
But the other half is still riding dandelion wings into the past.
That other one – it should work. Their hearts align. Things are easy. Around him she knows she’s the one that teenage boyfriends still dream about.
Just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s home.
She wishes she could take off her shoes and smile at the end of a long day. But you can’t live at a hotel.
Her heart is still framed in the eyelashes of someone she met in the spring. When stones skipped across rivers and the moon hung high and she was ready to fall in love. When his hand was in hers.
She knows they will never fit together again, but she’s cold and caught in the rain and tired of being homeless.
A Harvard study from 2007 shows that the average American spends 101 minutes per day driving, assuming they begin their driving lives at age seventeen and stop putting pedal to the metal when they’re 79.
We spend about seven hours each day in our bedrooms, sleeping. We sit in classrooms or work for hours at a time. We go to restaurants, read in libraries, walk in parks. We live our lives in these places.
The average person spends 101 minutes per day using their car to get them from point A to point B, not realizing that they’re really going from point A to point C because point B in the middle is a place, too – their car.
Each person’s car has a story. If you bought a 2015 Lexus new from the dealership, well, that’s just the beginning of its story and hopefully it has a long road ahead of it. If your car has had three owners, been across the country and back, gone through two transmissions and 227,000 miles, then it’s probably near the end of its story. Yes, that’s my point B, the 2000 Subaru Outback station wagon painted in something called “seafoam green” that is now more “rusty green,” which gets me from point A to point C. Most of the time.
In a year from now I want to be the song on the radio.
The one that I flip through the stations to find, that other people call in to request.
And even when it’s not on or it’s good and over, parked in the driveway, I want to keep on singing. No matter what happens to me. No matter what driveway I end up on. Right now I laugh when the wind gets knocked out of me and wait for the next blow. I want to look heavenward instead and say that blow’s not coming. I am music notes on airwaves riding raindrops till I reach the sun. And it doesn’t matter that my heart’s gotten bruised and battered because when I’m sung I heal and there’s nothing quite like hitting that note.
I’ll write notes across crimson skies when times are hard, I’ll write across the clouds and the blue and into the ears of those who need me. I will seep through closed doors and out of windowpanes and straight on through the glass, never going out of tune. So tune into me, a living breathing melody of hope. I want to be stuck in people’s heads and the soundtrack to the movie of your life. Whistled under the breath of someone who doesn’t know where they’re going until they find the rainbow they’ve been chasing. I want to be the nostalgia on the lips of someone who’s remembered where they’ve been. A lullaby to all of us awake in the day and an anthem when night finally comes. I want to play a lovesong to the story of a life worth living.