the faded navy shirt i bought on the boardwalk five years ago is still a size too big,
and your hands burn through it still.

your blue eyes,
your mess of curls,
your disposition to be sweet and simple and everything and more.

god, connor.

if hearts could speak,
yours would tell of histories, moonlight nights where you can see a million stars, a moon that you could take a bite out of if you tried.

but your heart is mute,
and it only beats.

i think our hearts might be oceans, though,
too vast to navigate, to unknown to ever be truly known.

i think that we can go sailing and get shipwrecked in our hearts,
but i think your hand fits pretty well with mine.

a spirit once told me that in a world full of inconsistencies it is vital to find your one infinity.

and then the spirit left.

and maybe i'm gullible,
maybe a shout into the nothingness is just as it sounds.

but our hands fit like puzzle pieces,
and i can feel god smiling on my weary face when i look at you.

so although our hearts be oceans,
can we draw a map?