No Assembly Required (Around The World Remix)

You’ll find me at baggage claim wearing sunglasses I don’t need, waiting for you with a passport full of warning labels and one-way flights to trouble.

In Tokyo, we’ll get matching piercings— you pick the place but I’m getting a nose ring because I lost mine in the Blue Lagoon and maybe you’ll be the start of something even better than Iceland.

In Barcelona, they’ll call us “wives”and you won’t correct them. You’ll just grin, thumb brushing the back of my hand like it’s always belonged there.

Croatia’s cable car will hold our secrets: I’ll braid your hair with saltwater fingers, kiss the sunscreen off your cheek, then point out every passing cloud and give it a name that sounds a little too much like forever.

In Thailand, we’ll eat street food with chili-stung lips, laughing in the alley when it’s too hot, too messy, too us. And you’ll say, “This is disgusting.” But you’ll still let me feed you.

In Porto, I’ll press you against a stone wall older than our grandmothers, the kind of kiss that forgets we’re in public. You’ll whisper that I taste like chaos, and I’ll say, “That’s just the port wine.” But it’s not.

We’ll almost get arrested in Scotland for doing something unholy in a very sacred castle — and I won’t even apologize because you started it with that look.

At Mardi Gras, we’ll kiss in the middle of a thunderstorm: rain slicking down your cheeks and glitter dripping from mine, your mouth pressed to mine like we could outlast the lightning.

You’ll say “You’re not even my type,” while lacing our fingers.
And I’ll say, “Yet here we are.”
Still smirking.
Still soft.
Still figuring out how to pack a lifetime into two carry-ons.

When we fight, it’ll be mid summer.
The ice cream will drip and so will my patience.
You’ll shove a spoonful in my face and I’ll tackle you with kisses.
You’ll call me impossible as I wipe a sticky smear off your neck with my mouth.
You’ll forget what we were yelling about.
The sidewalk will forgive us.

In the snow, we’ll sneak into an empty ice rink and I’ll pull you by the sleeves until we’re spinning in circles, laughing like kids who finally got picked for the right team.

At the zoo, I’ll cry about the animals and you’ll pull me into your hoodie like we’re the only species that matters.

You’ll teach me how to play sports and I’ll teach you about poetry. You’ll razz my flair for dramatics and I’ll roast your desire for perfection. We’ll call it balance.

I don’t gift things. I gift experiences, concerts, Bruins tickets on center ice, car karaoke, bruised knees in foreign cities, and sunscreen applied with criminal intent.

When we’re somewhere hot with too many stars overhead and music leaking through alleyways — I’ll let someone write your name in henna across my hipbone and pretend it’s just a souvenir.

But really?
It’s a spell.
Because I’ll see you.
Not expectations.
Not job titles.
Not the version everyone wanted you to be.
Not the armor you stitched from burnout.
Just you.

And if you see me too? Then baby, we’re not a project. We’re a fucking passport miracle.