Red Letter Year - Subtract out the impact and the fall is all you get

I want to be in love

and be loved back.

I want wine and nice dinners on tableclothes on the floor.  Candles, discussion. Smoke a joint and then perform impromptu poetry for each other.

I want to lie on a couch with our legs touching, on opposite ends, talking about what we want.

To spend all day, half naked, in bed with the TV ocassionally on in the background, talking.

To go to those quaint little coffee shops, order something extravagent and discuss local politics.

To give a dollar to begger on the street in the middle of a city we don't know.

Arcades.  Bowling.  Pool.  Bars.  Dancing.

Playing with thier hair.

To have real poetic inspiration come from something other than anger and emptiness.  I can only write cliche one-liners for so long before I loose myself in grey skies and black hearts of metaphor.

Get in the car and drive for hours, making silly stops along the way.  Feeding ducks in a park we've never seen before.  Pretending to be out-of-the-country tourists in some small trinket shop in a town with a smaller population than my 8am class.

Come home every night to each other.

Beautiful.  Sincere.  Honest.  Textured.  Nothing complicated, chaotic, or fake.  Genuine.

Real.