the weight of age is the price we pay for experience, we know where the edge is and it was never the girl

I've seen the edge, standing over purple blood stained sand, bullet ridden Red Bull cans and a photo shrine for her next to his dying body

I watched as he lay in self inflicted agony, legs flailing next to the shrine of the cute blonde, "somebody" on repeat on the truck radio

I went back to the dune days after his suicide, purple blood still there next to a latex glove, nothing else remained in the lonely desert

obsession playing out its macabre hand in a desert panorama, but I feel for the girl who got out while she could, immortalized in the desert

It was less about love and more about mental illness