That night I told you to find your own ride home
because I had better plans.
Plans that didn’t involve driving you back
after the high school dance

I wish I had taken you home.
We would’ve slipped off our shoes and laid across the bed.
When you opened your phone
to read the texts that burned your eyes,
I would’ve held your hand.

Even though you slide on a pretty dress,
and squeeze into a pair of heels,
bad news still slides it’s way down cheeks
carrying dark lines of mascara.

Tears don’t mean anything,
it’s the silence that stings.
The same silence that wrapped around
her neck ropes under your bedroom door,
slipping through pink glossed lips,
until you can’t breathe anymore.

Earlier that night we danced together
when your feet were still light as air.
Later on you found your own way home,
and lay wide awake, different from before.