And it was there I said I'd meet you.
Under the overpass, your eyes grasping for new ways to say I told you so. And that smokestack heart of mine piled up a few more miles of the most beautiful memories that could fit into my nap sack before the bus left:
When you remind me I'm lip-synching on our car rides to nowhere which is everywhere with you and how I hate telling you I'm wrong.
That smile- and how it wraps around my lips when I try and refuse that lighthouse from ushering me home.
The echoes your laughter makes across the empty dining room and how intentional you spin this sound so I can hear it from the bedroom.
Your left temple- tabernacle and all- leaning against the smoke. Every night. Not afraid of the fire.
And before I leave you remember that these trips are every bit as permanent as they are temporary. You tell me to hurry home and I remind you that I always am with you. You smile. The Sun screams, raising its voice across your face as we depart and you've never been as beautiful as when you said