outside of my window
i watch the town turn into
a skeleton of the summertime
the trees have all starved themselves and withered away the road
covered in a dull cold fog
as if God himself ripped and erased the gold sketches of July
how odd I miss the afternoons I spent boxed in a cubicle
stacks and stacks of meaningless endless work on the edge of my desk,
like a poor boy in an assembly line

but when id come home
you'd lay me down like a hot cup of coffee
countdown my vertebrae with your fingertips
like a boy in an old attic
and i was your archive
i was that page in the encyclopedia
i was that record in the juxebox
and when id fall asleep, i was the kid  on Christmas Eve
maybe the world around us was blazing in dantes inferno
maybe the world ran out of fossil fuel
countries filed bankrupt
the apocalypse begun
or aliens attacked
maybe everyone fled to the moon
and the earth was nothing but a disposable waste
but what would i care
under your arms
i didnt even
complain about
the weather