Hissing hydraulic brakes your face was hiding. April wind was howling. Empty streets at 6 a.m. A song of dust in squinting eyes. You hunched your shoulders, pulled your hood back, smiled sunrise. Bus doors closed.
We'd always leak away and trace these city limit lines 'til the night bled into day. Bend footsteps back t'ward sunburnt lines that cross the map of the town we lived in for all these sun-seared years. Sat South of love and East of friendship, but we feared nothin'! Yeah, we were pirates, with smoke mouthed muskets in hand. With full sails. And bold grins inscribed across each face.
And, back here, I still roll through days on waves of Autumn wind and memory. Empty streets at 3 a.m. Walk with our ghosts; still haunt this town. You took your chances, and a Greyhound just past sunset--headed West.
We'd always leak away, drive out past city limit lines. And we'd drive until the day- light bent rays back to eyes' red lines that crossed the map of the talks we'd lived in for all those wondering years, West of white lies and North of silence. Guess we feared something. But, now, what was it? And, now, where are you? Out West with full sails and clear eyes inside a sunset face?