A Place that Doesn't Exist

 i'm yearning to fall into a space.

a space where the only things that make sense are the songs sung by birds, the noises strewn about from leaves. A place that isn't the roof I sleep under, or the desk I sit at. Sometimes it lies behind my eyelids.
sometimes I find it sitting in my car with the tears falling.

a place where the wind is playing with my hair, and my hand is being held.

i'm pining for the pines.

a hole that might swallow me up and spit me into that fresh spruce smell. The rain in the pines aroma. The crystal of snow on the tips of their cones.

i feel wedged between seemingly polar opposite wants/worlds. Maybe it's a millennial thing, but is that bad? to yearn to fly... to cover the plains, forests, deserts of the world. the consistent restlessness sitting on your shoulders, your blades pushing them back, and towards the sky.

but what about this "home" people talk about. The thing everyone goes back to, where it seems the hardest memories lie. The beginning, where the rooting began. Is it wrong to long for roots beneath you.  consistent support. A world full of loyalty, unconditional love, and the comforting feeling that you actually belong somewhere.

how do you balance the two?

the wolf inside of you begging to be unleashed at Luna above you. To throw out all the "maybe's", the "some days" the checklist of life you're constantly holding accountable in your heart. To say FUCK IT and dance in that fountain, to leave for the mountains and never come back. 

the place that smells like you, the broken in couch in the perfect shape of your perfectly imperfect cheeks. where sidewalks can take you to new places, hand prints and sidewalk chalk telling the story of the lives unfolding there.