It’s like sitting shotgun in his truck, watching velocity become an artist as it paints the landscape in watercolors. You hold onto his hand across the console, letting his thumb set your pulse to the beat of his dashboard drumming. You are aware that drives come to an end, that roads do not stretch forever, that eventually the cul de sac will spin you in circles and spit you back out like a worn down washing machine. But you are happy and he is content.
It’s like climbing through window frames, the unbuilt houses unfolding like skeletons against a moonless night. Stars flicker like flashbulbs above your heads, snapshots captured in a long string of moments and minutes that make up the history of pairs. Headlights peer around the bend and he pulls you against a plywood wall. You mentally mark the places where your outlines merge, playing connect the dots with knobby knees and captive breaths. His grip loosens on your wrist and your fingers become acquainted with splintered beams. You are a collection of gasps, flashlights and duct tape bandaids.
It’s like laying in a hammock on a summer afternoon, two sardines packed into a chevron, quilted can. Your head fits below his chin and his fingers draw murals along your spine. He smells like woods and earth and familiarity and your limbs tangle like vines in an Amazonian jungle. You are Tarzan and Jane, climbing up, up, up, until you’re up river without a paddle, praying that somehow you’ll drift  home. He shifts and you look up, chins resting on chests, hearts beating like ticking time bombs,  counting down the minutes until you’re all bladed shrapnel and burned bridges.
It’s like sitting by a phone that never rings. Silence fills rooms in a way that darkness fills souls, slipping into every crack, flooding like an overrun bath. Memories dance just out of reach, turning black at the corners where your fingertips have grazed. Midnight roads become metaphors for emptiness and empty houses become synonymous with hearts. Hammocks tear in brutal storms and hang like white flags in combat. Your pulse struggles to find its own rhythm, duct tape bandaids fray,  your bomb goes off and you watch pieces of yourself go up in flames, everything turning to smoke and ash. It’s like numb fingers walking home in the dead of winter, it’s like rain against the big bay window. It’s like silent drives and empty sheets.
It’s like a handful of wishing stars and a lifetime of regrets.