With you.

I wanted to sit on the porch of your old house, and drink beers with you until the moon lit the streets.

I wanted to climb onto the roof with you, and watch the fireworks burst in the glaze of your eyes.

I wanted to lay in your bed at stare up at your ceiling with you; stare at the Earth at Night and Africa, not South America.

I wanted to stand in the fire with you, on top of that old door, holding your hand.

I wanted to walk across the sand through the rain with you, plunge into puddles feet first, and breath the other side of the world.