the beginning, middle, and end of your most treasured novel

Hope Is Existent, USA. where there are lemonade stands at every corner and the fee is a chirpy grin

a hollow treehouse – but inside are all your childhood toys and games – when you’re there you have pleasant memories and it’s like you’re six years old again

the backbone of nights spent swiveling across a ceiling

the hole you dug up that was supposed to get you to the other side of the world

an inky black street with dark rain everywhere

an amber dandelion field with tiny bugs that whisper reassuring words into your ears

a cottage near the beach

a jar that contains all your mirthful recollections, and when you’re feeling heavy-hearted and down in the dumps, you can stay there

the dead space in between where all the planets are lined up

the black hole where the light leaks through when you hold the moon in your clenched fists

an abandoned house with vines all around it and lacy curtains on the window. the tree in front of the house has an old tire swing. the grass is chaotic up your knees; the flaking specks of paint align all over the porch but it’s the most charming house you’ve ever seen

a house where you finally understand the meaning of “home is where the heart is”

the space in the sky where the sun used to be … but now it’s set and there’s an empty space for you to shine

a deserted corridor, with lights as bright as your future