It is not pretty anymore I have no pasture no sweet annie or cider apples
I miss the nights on Myrtle Ave always wine/music/friends and Arloβs playing guitar and Brendanβs picking his mandolin Zachβs holding my hand, we were crying in my bed earlier but you had wool and gold draped all over drinking Italian prosecco eating berries off your fingers curled your hands over like a rabbit tiptoed toward me "drunk hands and sneaky feetβ
Hey, that's just a memory now Tonight there are no more gimlets/dumpster food/hand carved spoons it is cold toes/empty bed/hollow stare I would trade this safety for that love, wholeheartedly