watching someone die
has a way of changing you
into someone new

there are crumbs scattered through the forest
are you calling out to me?
if i taste you, will you still be sweet?
buttercup fields begging to tell me
if you love me or love me not
but i'm tongue tied and choking on the apology
too afraid to pluck your petals in the search for truth
i'm sorry that i'm disappointing

you were confused by the difference
between ****** and heroine
but you loved to do them both,
hoping that one of them would
finally take you away

you know, it's funny; tonight i was driving back to an empty apartment and one of your songs for me came through the speakers a bit too loud, just the way you liked it. the one about the girl who fled virginia for the west coast and the desperation to keep her close, mentioning the kempsville back roads and the boardwalk that we used to drive around ourselves. you said it was going to happen, i was going to leave virginia and you with it and flee to the pacific. and it's funny; you were right. i did exactly that, no matter how many times i tried to laugh at your vision of my future. you were always right.

and what's even more funny: you live further west than i ever have, surrounded by the mountains i am desperate to see, and i'll be returning to that commonwealth i was desperate to get away from. and it's almost a poetic justice. that i'm going back and you're the one half a world away. but this time, i won't be climbing through the windows of houses on indian river road anymore, or packing bongs in the snow in a greenbrier backyard, or watching the curls that would spill over that gentle curve of your lip in that house off of lynnhaven where we first met. no, i'll get to see the gentle curves of the east coast mountains, perhaps softer than yours ever were. i'll watch cherry blossoms fall soft and sweet, better than the way i fell for you. and you'll be in some spotlight in anchorage, making her laugh harder than i ever did. and that's okay with me.

i used to see signs of your
indiscretions and always read
them as directions of where i
should run, and it always said
that i should run away from you

i learned the taste of blood from
the way that i would bite my
tongue to stop from speaking my mind,
and it always tasted like metal
giving way and folding under pressure

there's something tragic,
something poetic,
something nostalgic
about the way i still hang
onto every word you said

onto the way that you would
bury your face into my hair

onto the time that you bought
me a drink from across the
room at her art show


there's something tragic,
something poetic,
something nostalgic
about my visceral reaction
every time i hear your name

every time i drink tea in the
afternoon on a chilly day

every time i walk down the
road where you carried me
home when i had too much


there's something tragic,
something poetic,
something nostalgic
about you