My dad dug his foot into my back like a shovel breaking soil.
If I do enough push ups, can I put a smile on your face.
If I move the earth for you, will meteors stop me.

I carried sparklers in my hands while cannon-kisses erupted in the sky,
and my cousin swore that I'd hurt myself.
But I explained to him that history repeats itself,
and that my hurt is unavoidable.

Like the hug of a grieving grandmother,
and the staring off into space,
as her tears stain my white oxford lie.
There's no way to get out of this place.
Finding new ways to live in death.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.

And her fingers left a ******* on my back.
And my mouth melted onto hers.
I love her until my eyes **** in sleep.
And it's deep. And it's deep.

The swirl of the ceiling sank down
like a child being drowned by his mother.
And I missed my brother, and I missed it all.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.
No, not anymore.

My grandmother always used to tell me that July was the best month for a wedding. It was the only month you could count on to not have rain. And she was right, as long as I can remember, not once have I seen rain in July.
It did rain however, that last Wednesday in May you still looked at me like I had stardust in my hair and the amazon river in my eyes. And it also rained, that Thursday in June, when I wrote you the last of many letters I never sent you. And now I'm 2,000 miles from you realizing that even when I was still in the same zipcode, we were galaxies apart. I was stuck on a planet with a very stable climate of a constant downpour, and I don't know where you were, but I do know that it was nowhere near me.

And today marks 30 days I've been dead in the water, calling your name and hoping that wind really never does die. I still don't know much but it has to mean something that it's July and it hasn't stopped raining.