All I ever wanted was to seep into you. And you to embrace the rivers of my ache. To welcome my despair with the generosity of Saturday mornings, and the conviction of youth I never did find. And me to wake up, covered in dew. A lightning bug, still in your hand. I hate most of the sounds you make. They’re all I’ve ever known of love. Speak to me of distant skies, learning to fear love, and blues I’ve never tasted. If I spin in circles backwards, will our future start over again?