I find myself lying between two babies on a beach blanket, because I'm reluctant to be too much, or too little, for you, as you take in the sun through the lenses of something fucking awful a few yards from me. in your bright red shorts. and breathtaking bone structure.
you are absolutely beautiful. honestly, the kind of beauty i try to write about but can't ever express in words, because like i always say, words are not enough.
i crawl over to you, with a full heart and sweaty armpits, and you ask for one of my fries. then you try to feed it to a seagull, but he doesn't want it.
we walk. we walk and you cry. and that's okay. because i want to cry too. you grab my hand suddenly (the way you grabbed it in rehearsal in the winter) to see if there is a line on my hand that indicates that i am psychic, because your palm reader told you you weren't, and it'd be nice to have a psychic person around in case he tries to visit.
but i tell you i think he's always visiting. and i tell you i belive in collective consciencouness. and i tell you that its alright to cry. alot. and then eleven hours later when we are still together in the driveway of your aunt's house, and we've talked abuot all the tattoos we've noticed with his name, and i give you the book my dad wanted you to have, and you show me the card that you found in the park with the moon and the clown and the telescope looking down from the heavens, i tell you that you are the sweetest person, so good. and that you and him made me believe in so much. and that you make me believe in so much. and i mean it.
