Straight down to Florida, and the palm trees
look as dead to me as the skin on the palm
of my hand.
In the still of the night,
at a gas station, smoking.
Never did we care about things
going up in flames,
down the drain.
Ask me anything, anything you want
Slapping mosquitoes, yellow sun
taste of lukewarm Coke in the backseat
I asked for a road that ran straight
into the ocean.
We tried to swim all the way
to Mexico.
I wanted to become a million grains of sand.
I hope you find me in your picnic lunch.
I hope you can't wash me off your feet.
But we see the oil on the shore,
we hear the deaths announced on the radio,
dolphin's cry,
garbage around a turtle's neck.
I hope I am one beautiful thing in this world
that they can't destroy.
This is about all the times I spent in Florida when I was younger, and the roadtrips down there.
