All you want is everything.

The big sha-bang as we like to say. Sometimes with a little more emphasis on the 'bang.' There is nothing wrong with that. Not one bit. Until you start to question yourself. That is the pebble that is yanked loose before suddenly a waterfall of leftover deadbeat worries and fears and wants that make no sense burst forth. Most of the time, because the answers to each of those things, is right in front of our faces.

Getting to know someone after all, it takes time. More time if you think they are a jerk right off the bat when they spill a cup of cherry soda on your lap and then try to cover it up discreetly not with a napkin, no, but their own hand. Luckily sometimes, the person you meet is someone who's hatred of mornings is ruined when they have to crack a smile after screwing up the game two truths and a lie by telling not one, not two, but three truths. No lie to be found within his history of random stories and cello playing.

It sort of feels like a moment that was meant to happen, and for once, those moments that take place usually only in stories are what you want.

You want to be a story.

You want to be folded up between pages and arms that drape across shoulders and are bound tight like the hand that seemed to fit perfectly, swinging over broken crunched leaves until suddenly...it doesn't. And those eyes. They look at you like a wall of color. But they don't see past the word. That laugh, like lyrics, are off key.

And all you want is something.

A spark of across the page before the chapter ends.

And all you want is nothing.

So you get nothing.

Before all you want is for him to look at you. Ok, strike that.

All you want is everything.

When everything is so hard to find.