we are unusual and tragic and alive

I remember being small and looking out the backseat window of the car, thinking that the moon was following us on our journey. It hangs bright and round in the sky when I drive home on empty roads most nights that could easily pass for mornings, fingers loosely gripping the steering wheel. I’ve been tricked into loving this town with it’s front lawns and sprinklers in the summer, with it’s Christmas decorations and visible breath in the winter, sometimes with clenched fists, empty-handed, and then sometimes so completely full of the people I love and the late night drives and the milkshake runs and the suburbia of it all, I feel like I could burst at the seams. One thing’s for certain: you can see the stars and the moon shining bright overhead and nothing feels more like home than watching the sky from my window, dreaming of days to come.