Work in Progress (or Stream of Consciousness Garbage)
I hope you find someone who makes you feel alive.
Someone who makes you want to write poetry using nothing but the stars and hills and the street names of your city.
Someone who makes you want to become the best person you can be.
Someone whom you spend hours talking to hours after the goodbyes and goodnights have been aired.
I hope you never settle to fill in an imaginary void, prompted by the slow aching of loneliness.
I hope your spirit never becomes tainted by the aging tugging of regret and remorse.
But when you do, make sure to tell me, eh?
Make me love her as much as you.