melted

born in the seventies

we were supposed to live in turquoises and creams, grumbling refrigerators and tents under the stars.

if you hadn't noticed already, there are streaks of blonde in your hair that you plan to darken on a whim, and too-short shorts for your own fashionable desires, and invisible flowers braided into your veins.

beetles? give me some stones rolling down a hill anyday! she'll smile, picking oleander blossoms without a care in the world, kissing her fingertips with red sangria on her nails and on her breath.

i loved you in the future and here, now, i am at a loss for words - perhaps in a moment, i will understand why the beta fish you've kept swims to your side every time you approach.

for my change of person is not for you, nor is the constant refocus of my lens on us and on the world as a whole, here in our fog-covered skies, where the music ripples through each blade of grass until it reaches our awaiting ears.

we were born in the seventies, getting high off the atmosphere, forgetting to scream as the pain comes shooting back again, only choosing to kiss and cry, reliving everything.