I know we make wishes on stars when we’ve run out of names to cry and embody trees just to feel something call us home. We hold the wind in fists of reasons we fear becoming, and fold promises into the letters behind eyes we closed before daylight had a name. Love wrote hope across your fingertips, but we traded these bones for a summer of smiles between clouds we’ve never seen, and a story that was never ours. Years are the times spent defining the breaths that aren’t ours, and the yesterday’s knocking your heart against the cracks promise emptied into good nights we never spoke of. Flowers are memories we plant when we are loosing ourselves, and darling, I think it’s time to make this road our home.