After a year I took you to the Eastern Sierras. Home.

Last time I was here these mountains seemed bigger, in pictures my face was thinner.

Walking in my granfathers footsepts I spoke of my family, I spoke of these canyons, you spoke of your dreams, and you spoke of us.

Black coffee in our matching cups. You make it strong; like me I said.

With the high sierra granite surrounding us we removed our bandaids and wondered where the scars went.


Everyone knows a broken heart is blind. At least that's what Jack thought me. After pondering it for quite sometime I think that I would like to give you mine. I think you see me.