About pain and love and unrequited passion. About lonely girls standing on street corners in the rain. About homeless men that walk with pride. About oceans and sunsets and our lovers’ smiles.
We write about memories. We are toddlers with paint sets, pushing laughter and tears and colors across clean pages. Letters that weave words. Words that make up sentences. Lines that smile their way into sad paragraphs about lovers lost and found and the rain in midnight cities.
Oh we could write about working too many hours or being unemployed. We could write about living alone or in a house that ages like an old lover. But the music of a moment plays, and the melody takes us to simpler things: A girl who refuses to sleep with another. A flower growing in concrete. The taste of another’s lips.