I’ve been spending a lot of time looking back.
I used to see poetry in the world around me. There was beauty in playgrounds, on rooftops, in the fields we had laid in a thousand nights before, looking at the stars. There was magic in the cold New England air and there was adventure in driving around this nothing town- as long as you were there and we had enough cigarettes and Bright Eyes CD’s and a camera to capture life and the sky and everything in between. Everything was beautiful and fuck, we felt so alive.
I look back now, reading old journals and wondering when I lost track of that person who used to seek out adventure and passion and poetry in the night sky. I want to see that world again. I want to inhale it- to hold it in my lungs and feel it in my bones.
And I want to exhale, “I am here, I am here, I am here.”
