two cans of blue moon
now i'm alone and drunk
two cigars on a porch
with churning stomachs
a life vest with no water
lemons and buckets of gin
sipping from rotten watermelon rinds
celebrating dogs and writing down lies
lighting a damp fire
he's slept in my dad's office
wine in mugs
Christmas hats
photos in tall grass
tickling laughs on a hammock
ears of corn
one year older
I was naked on the 4th of July
fake deer enduring endless bullets
glowsticks and roman candles
unlit wicks
root beer buzz
one sad night with the stripes
one flag in the park
blue hair and a blunt cut
one braid in the dust
one friendship but

never forget
the two broken hearts
from something that never was

You cut her hair. So what?
She was asking for you to cut her hair.
You were drunk and she pleading for you to cut her hair.
Her hair was bad.
It contained melanin and memories and maybe the faint smell of a fire.
It was gold and long and thick and strangling you every time you dared to fall asleep.
It held holly, sweat, and the sprinting atmosphere that lingers outside of car windows.

You both loved a man that would rather linger with birds.
You both feared the way her hair spelled his name in its strands.
You are blue and she is gold and between you is a black hole that is bound to destroy the sun.

She wanted a bow through her aura.
You cut her hair and there is nothing you can do about it.

Celebration in the courthouse
Too many loves, now the lack
She held most men's hearts
In a velvet dress painted black

Through the lens Jimmy saw
Icy hair, Snow blonde skin
Ribs,her birdcage of a home
Tops of trees lack of sin

Her heart boiled over
While she read Kerouac
She fully felt each emotion
Right before the attack

Unashamed in decision
Never lost how to live
Elizabeth had her two children
A man who couldn't forgive

Her too honest tongue
And her heart made of wax
Found their way into the hands
Of the man who came back

They both held together
Each crest was to merge
But hers started to shake
And unleash all her birds

Immune flew off first
Memory left near the last
Flying south in the winter
Seeping backwards to past

Now her fist's in her mouth
And newsprint's in his eyes
Mr. Jones holds the map
To where her spirit now flies