Love Don't Wait In Line
There’s a story I read all these years ago, about a traveler who roams and roams and can’t find somewhere to call home. A boy who’s lost his place and is looking for something, is looking for meaning, is reaching for sky.
He walks nameless streets and kisses muddy lips / he wonders if this all there is, he wishes for a better start or an arrow or a heart or the kind of love that makes the stars burn / like he wishes he could.
He falls hard and fast and runs faster; he hopes maybe running gets easier once you start forgetting what you’re running from, and isn't that the whole point? Maybe it gets harder once people stop waiting for you to come home.
It wasn’t a happy story, no, but it was a special one.
I sat in my pyjamas at the desk in my old childhood room, with the red chair turned towards the window and a flower on top, and I cried over a boy who’d lost his mind, because I am the runner I am the sinner I am the frail hopeful half / I am the boy.
It's funny how long we spent trying, how we walked every road and looked in every corner; but the answer is never that well hidden really / it's in front of your eyes really.
But running is easy and roaming is too, once you find your footing, you start to recognize the signs; you can always tell once you’ve kissed the last pair of lips before it’s night again and you’re on a flight again and there’s weeping and breaking and people calling but you’re only looking, you’re only wishing.
Wishing it’d get easier, maybe / wishing you could stay.
I don’t know where my boy is now, or how his story ended, but I hope he found what he was looking for. I hope his days don’t keep him up at night and that maybe one time there will be a right time.
I wish him the best, I do.
I still sing his song, I do.
I still carry him with me, in case he changes course, and I wait for the sign / that this world might be changing, but he’s already changed his mind.
I hope his fire burns just as bright and bold and beautiful, and that he isn’t as lonely as he seems from my side of the glass.
It’s a fragile glass, and I think the boy is itching to break free. It’s a glass he spent a long time building, and a longer time behind, so it’s hard to forgive and forget and let the pieces fall to the ground in a mess of color and noise and icy blue eyes reminding you to stay. But sometimes that’s all we can do.
Sink or swim.
Fight or fly, like my boy did. Like I wish I had / I wish I could / I wish I will.