the taste of shooting stars

Sometimes I remember the way his lips tasted like shooting stars, and it makes me smile. And for a moment, the rainy wetness outside is replaced by the memory of that warm summer night. Other times, I remember the way he looked at me as he held his guitar tight while his fingers danced across the strings. And for a moment, I forget that I'm sitting alone watching Netflix on a Tuesday night, 201 miles away. 
Sometimes I just want to set myself free.
But I can't because I don't even have wings
and geographically it's wont work,
money wise it's incredibly impossible,
and age wise it's impossible
it's all impossible.
So I need to stop thinking about it
because it's impossible.

Did I say it"s impossible?
Because I need a reminder of that every 5 minutes or else I get dreaming again.
It wont work.
It was never going to work.

So with my headphones plugged in, I run out beneath the moon bare footed with an aching heart as the heavens share the same emotions with the earth. 

I'm pretty sure no one actually reads this blog anymore.