i met you when i was nineteen,
you like to tell different versions of this story:
we were in a parking lot, i found you at the subway, no, no it was during the last performance at a festival, we locked eyes and-
all i remembered were your shoelaces
how you laced the string through all the wrong holes
and the funny way how
we never look for
our vices till we're in
too deep.


"out there," i once said over the phone "must be a god for all the sad and willing *******-"


i was your favourite passenger when
you were drunk
at the steering wheel.
it was worth it for how
you always sped a little too fast
talked a little too loud
finally opened up that stubborn, lonely
heart.
the lane we're on doesn't have a name
look- how the lamplights
lurch forward;
up the alleyway, down the steps-
where are we going darling?
where are we going?



neither of us are doing okay.
you're running hard and fast and with those
loose laces,
i'm nineteen again and can't let go of
a bad thing, ****-
Hold my hand.
so it's sunlight. so it's suicide.
till the very end,
don't let go. don't let go.