I want to bathe in music, filling up a room so loudly there can be nothing else. With eyes closed, thinking only of interweaving melodies, trusting harmonies to string my thoughts together, making sense of the clustered, nonsensical noise inside my head.

I want to sit and cry, held by someone, anyone, because dear god how do some people survive years of being lonely when I can hardly handle two weeks.

I want to sleep in your bed, breathe in your scent, and wonder if I’m leaving my own, so you’ll think about me after I’m gone.

I just want you to be thinking of me after I’ve gone.

What is more profound than being in a crowd of my friends and scream-dancing our anthems? Turn around bright eyes, you’re gonna hear me roar. What’s my age again?

Nothing is more profound, because that’s where I am found. In a crowd of familiar faces in an unfamiliar city, the same song year after year — it is impossible to be lost, except within the meaning of why we are there.

The warmth of a fireplace, football on the TV, the soft hum of a miniature train chugging around the Christmas tree is my true holiday cheer. Light snow coating the ground like powdered sugar on top of flaky pastry, and a cat in and out of sleep, but still purring loudly on my lap. The smell of home cooked food wafting from the kitchen, and the sounds of family visiting my childhood home.

I just want to go home.

It makes no difference to you, if my face is freshly washed and painted with make up, or tear stained and blotchy. You see me as me; no matter what reflection I see in the mirror. It doesn’t make a difference if I’m wearing tall boots or just rolling out of bed, completely raw. In fact, I think you prefer that, the unseen side of me only you witness. The knotted, messy hair, and rubbed off, smudged eyeliner — a day old me.

You are my home.

Nothing compares to being surrounded by a mountain of pillows and the stuffed animals I can’t seem to detach myself from, a cup of tea, and an endless supply of Netflix movies and peppermint patties.

Well, that’s what I have now. Before, I could reach out, and grab what I wanted without even thinking about what I wanted. Now, it has to be calculated, weighed against real life, adult decisions. I said it before, and I’ll say it again, “wild, and free, and trapped in the cage of adult hood.”

Will I never know how the people who do it all can do it all?

If I always write while listening to the same song will the tune of my writing ever change?

What’s better than that extra hour of sleep at night when the clocks turn back? The simple antidote that is the extra hour of time to lay in your arms, perfectly in sync with your breathing, matching mine to yours. If only I could have an extra hour every night until daytime exists no more.

Everything surpasses the mundane aspects of every day life, but what would life be if we didn’t have those quiet boring moments to separate our adventures. Time to let our brains process and slow down, to appreciate the moments that belong together in a metaphorical photo album.

Sometimes, I stop reading for a while because that overwhelming sense of loss when I close the cover to a finished book is just too much. Death, I have come to expect. But endings, I cannot.

Then, there’s the finality of the way we never spoke, and the way I still looked for your car outside every morning.