In your black, beat-down civic,
you blasted The Wonder Years' song,
An Elegy For Baby Blue
and you told me that the song was about a stolen bike
and that you loved it more than words could describe.
And I turned to you,
and told you that I loved you
as much as you loved that song.
And you kissed me until I was positive
I couldn't wash the taste of you out of my mouth.

It's Wednesday, July 9th
and it's been 475 days since we last spoke.
I smoked a single one of your favorite Marlboros yesterday,
and buried the rest of the pack in my backyard,
in the place under where you put dandelions in my hair.
It's Wednesday, July 9th
and I miss you like I've missed you for the past 475 days.

I got drunk last weekend,
and went out with Laura to the mall,
to buy The Wonder Years' album.
I played the CD in my car on the way back
until I was positive the walls of my head were peeling
from the memories of you.
An Elegy For Baby Blue came on
and I could swear I felt your warm breath down my neck
and I spent the night lying in the backseat,
staring at the gradient sky.

I always loved sunsets
because they reminded me
that even endings could be beautiful.
You told me that you didn't love me anymore
under a sunset colored sky,
because you thought that our ending could be beautiful.
But you were wrong.
Our ending was rancid
and it left me with jagged
with emotion I no longer have the capacity to feel.

I always loved sunsets,
because they reminded me that endings can be beautiful.
But sunsets eventually bleed into nightfall
and that's all endings ever are,
dark and cold.

"It's all over now Baby Blue.
It's like the world stopped revolving in the absence of you."