From what I know

The man or woman you're supposed to be with, will become your best friend.
Not because society teaches us, but because that is the frequent path we all go
Not because you love your "best friend" less than your lover, but because the love is different
the relationships are weighted differently, the metaphors a different kind
If your boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife is your heart
your best friend is your lungs
and you are the brain, unconsciously operating these motor functions,
not favoring either vital organ.
But songs are poetry are rarely focused on the lungs, but rather the heart
And yet, at some point of heartbreak people will say to take a deep breath, and continue on
inhaling, and exhaling, till eventually the pain fades
You don't want to have children with just your best friend,
you want them in the image of your best friend and lover.
You don't live with your best friend the rest of your life,
you live with your husband or wife.
You grow old with them, you grow inseperable to them
Till all the branches grow out and blossom

Carousel

Her eyes are open, blank, with a worn off expression
Her coat dusty, but with the promise of having seen better days
Younger days, from before the weathering
When the lights were still lit, and the music still sang
Fond memories of when I didn't care
Of when I never fell, of a time where my lips weren't red with ambition
Of a time my cheeks were rosy instead
And there was a boy, a boy, a man
Standing across with sand in his hand
I tighten my grip, my knuckles are strained
The circle is slowing, slowly to my grave
The man places a kiss upon my brow,
There is a glimmer on his hand
There is a promise on mine
Together we'll have our time unwind
Or together we'll mend our timely end

The Sincerity of a Kiss

You'll be my sailor, and I'll be your sea
I'll whisper foamy promises,
"Won't you come away with me...?"
Fall into me, and never look away
Crystal wind blowing; lead us astray
Together, together, whatever may be
I ask again, come away with me
Take your dreams, silver dust and gold
My dream is you, to love and to hold

Suppose

We get more beautiful as we get older. We mature from kids whose faces are not quite proportional, perhaps teeth are too big, a smile too broad, eyes too large, and faces still round. This change occurs for two reasons, partly nature and the rest nurture. We have to become beautiful. We have to be appealing because somehow people cease noticing personality. They sure as hell will notice if your mascara is applied properly though. First and foremost, they will judge you. How cruel a practice and right of passage that is. We've all, shamefully so, done it at one point or another.

Suppose I knew who I was. Knew what I looked like. Suppose I knew the truth. All the hundreds of them all different yet all the truth. Think of it. The only time when two opposite statements can be true at the same time. They are called opinions, floating amidst the minds of everyone. Forming their image on, that's right, y-o-u.

Happy New Year.