if it's the middle of the night and I'm laying in my best friends bed while she sleeps to my right, and I'm kind of reading poetry and kind of pretending  I'm knee deep in traffic lights and 80 miles an hour to nowhere, and the room is dark and her fan creaks every three seconds on cue, and her washing machine is going because I spilled on the white shirt she was going to wear tomorrow, then maybe I can exhale five times fast let things be as simple as they really want to be.
maybe I'll write a letter to your father and tell him he ******* you up and simultaneously made you the best person to walk around in tucson arizona, and he'll probably smirk condescendingly cause I correctly pronoun you and he thinks there's something wrong with you but he'll be pleased that someone is proud of what he created so he'd let it roll off his back while behind every word I'm only wishing you'd roll off my tongue, like you used too. your maroon sheets were the soundtrack to my summer and I mean that because the noises that were made while I was wrapped in those managed to open my eyes and make my heart beat and system overdrive with all of my other senses like when you stand too close to the amp when your guitars plugged in, like there was this mountain I once saw in place of your head and when I saw that I had to climb it I thought hey atleast at the end I'll be sitting on his face, right, get some head outta this whole ordeal am I right, but instead when I got to the top I was sitting on your shoulders like I was your daughter and we were at a parade and you saying "that's some hard stuff, kiddo" was on repeat in my head like kiddo? kiddo? that is definitely not ***** talk and in actuality I'm a good 4 inches taller than you.
here we go, I plan to have a photoshoot at a laundromat and I get my camera's ready and clear a memory card and my best friend gets all ready to be my model and we laugh and she poses and we pretend not to notice when people eye us suspiciously and then we climb some mountains and I turn and you're nowhere to be found and that ***** why would I climb the mountain that IS  you when I can't even find you and I think that might be a metaphor because you're literally nowhere to be found we haven't talked all day but maybe there's no hidden message and this is all just one really bad long run on sentence about mountains and the head that I'm not getting but I totally should be getting and doing laundry because I spill on everything and write in the middle of the night when my best friends asleep and you're short and I'm tall and I love you and you say you love me but really who the **** knows. who the **** knows what you really mean by any of this at all
maybe I'll write a letter to your baby sister and tell her you slept with someone that was a year younger than her and I'll watch you get all red because you're embarrassed and angry when she calls and questions you and you'll say something like "yeah, her...yeah, the one you've met...yeah, she did stay at my house that night, no what the **** I don't know if we had ***, what the **** stop you're making me uncomfortable, I am not going to go to jail" and you'll be eyeing me angrily and when you get off the phone you'll scold me and I'll laugh all the way to the top of your mountain and when I'm at the top I probably still won't get any head. angry ***, that's a thing, I'll write the same letter and send it to your girlfriend and when you yell at me I'll say something sweet and innocent and put my hair in pigtails and lick a lollipop and say nothings even happening here so why are you yelling and then I'll skip away from you and look so cute you'll call me and ask if we can camp on the mountain tonight like we were supposed to the night before I moved but your girlfriend flipped so we got coffee instead and you pressed ignore until no one could ignore it any longer so you answered and I left.
then I came back.
but I dunno, have you even realized that? like, I'm here..... I'm back now....where's your head at? but more importantly, where's mine.