i made the trip to our hometown
down that old street and to my old bedroom
i thought going back would help me get away
it only reminded me of you more

in my bed, it’s like muscle memory
a gentle reminder of us lying together
staring up at the plastic constellations on my ceiling
rambling how we would see the real stars in oregon

we packed our bags and headed west
following a map of state lines and truck stops
with every mile a new memory
every turn a chip in the mask

we got a cup of coffee at nancy’s diner
as the waitress poured you called her something unrepeatable
and when she spilled a little on the table
you attacked before she could say sorry

we made it to omaha at golden hour
in the hotel room, i took an unexpected polaroid of you
but not as unexpected as when you slapped it out of my hand
and told me “i don’t like surprises.”

the way i saw you was deteriorating 5 months deep
chiseling away with every backhanded comment
your silver tongue kept me around
no matter how sharp it cut

the stars started to dim out there
though i wanted them to shine forever
your virtue shattered on the dock that night
when hands reached for my face, i never turned back

i took a red eye when it hurt
there was silence throughout the plane
in my hand, fragments of stars and deceit
i keep it clenched, close to my self doubt

when you look back
do you remember the flowers through the fog of the window?
or do you just remember
the petals in the sink and the glass on the floor?

i remember your facade but try to forget
i tell myself the truth no matter how much it hurts
sometimes i can’t help myself but to think
what if we went back to the phase of the masks?