I’m so ready to read the world from a different angle. I want to watch the world from above and on nights when there’s something in the sky worth seeing, you and I can drive far away where the lights can’t touch us and we’ll stare until our eyes water and the stars blur.
I can’t stop looking at the words you wrote in my notebook. I read them backwards twice a day and at night when I’m almost positive I don’t want to wake up. They wrap themselves around my wrists and share stories with my veins and I want nothing more than to follow them back to you. They’re the sound of rubbing your hands together and the click of your bedroom door closing. They’re in the sound of tape ripping a picture down but you’re in the sound of water hitting shower walls and the car door slamming at dawn.
You’re the sound of bare feet on the floor and your laugh echoing off the walls because we’re in an empty room. You’re the sound of the Spanish hymns my grandmother sings when we reach her hometown and the water on the bricks by your front door and the jangling pocket of my jeans where I keep my spare change.
You’re the pencil on paper and the left-handed smudges you leave when you write. You’re my bedroom windows opening up and the blinds tapping against the glass when it’s windy and the scratch on my wooden floor from the time you tripped and broke your camera. You are warfare in the desert and gunshots underwater, the first page and the last letter.
You’re in the music we listen to when we’re together, the tinny sound of my phone’s speakers contrasting with your wispy drawl. It takes me half a song to get to school, five to reach our favourite restaurant, and eight to arrive at your father’s house.
None of our songs make sense when I wake up. They fade away with the night sky. Tell me when you grab a hold of the North Star and we can read it together.