vintage

I tried to compress this into one complicated metaphor with tons of adjectives for my heart, but you're worth all the magnification. I always used to dream of two bungalows bathed in pale pink and two children - with shoddy dressing efforts - on playdates - carefree and unaware of the city smoke and burnt bridges. I dreamt of a long noah-allie summer, I wanted the world to be a wish granting factory, but reel is gamble and the world prefers horses, not unicorns. I dream a lot, I am now in a pool of crumpled cash and poetry and early, urban youth. I can't place you now, I wish I had a crystal ball I'd peer at - all day long. I know you are nights away but isn't that the time you spend on fickle fantasies? I think about how hollow celestial space is, how humans crave for this vacant terminal and how I'd prefer my trophy to be flesh and bone. We grew up like the sun and the moon, forever hiding and then seeking each other devoted and vehement, I fortunately never gave up on rainbow flyovers and you. This story isn't a whole pie now, it lives in pieces - a fraction in me, a part in you. The streets smell of promises and when we are back where we began, the bungalows know our secrets and the hallways still tickle me with memories. I remember trying to imagine the clouds in thousand different shapes, each better than the other. I wonder if you're the same cloud or whether the winds have carried you away.