Are we there yet? Can we see the makeshifts and time changes dwelling, like the gallons of blood circulating in your body can make oceans. We breathe heavily through ashes and alcohol and half-smoked cigarettes on damaged balconies resembling a kind of freedom that you cannot afford. The feeling of being fundamentally fucking free. I can’t describe it, it is something so beautiful and so raw that builds up inside of me whenever I get to see you. We walk on paths that lead us to where we are supposed to be, and it’s like, I can’t believe your here walking with me. I remember being so scared but never telling you because I wanted to be tough in the ways you thought I was. I wrote sad and strange poems when I was sleep drunk because the dreams were too much so I swapped them for homeless words and letting my concern be heard, sometimes when I ached so loudly that unfathomed stars started to burn. And I am just overwhelmed. Those quiet things I never talked about with anyone because they were all mine and I was protective of them. All those people who never knew about the moments that tried to stay lodged in our bones but they burned us through.