I called it 'alright', and you would have me apologise for that. Before, we both did not know what all the fuss was about, couldn't quite understand it;
You'll put your hand on your heart and say this isn't true.
Maybe it's what I deserve.

It is time to go home. He crosses the road to a gravel pathway, where plastic sticks out of the ground like trampled shrubs, and a worthless coin half-disguised by the dirt catches his eye.
Perhaps it is alright that he knows no better; rubs it clean against his pants, and puts it into his pocket. There would be more coins, and they were bound to add up.

You're a shoe in through a closed door, a red nose; a brown and orange man, tall with ideas not worth the paper it would take.
The weight of it all is quite severe, a knock to the side of a head.
Heed the warning; write it down, and not to be thrown away in the morning when you toss the covers and air the place out. It is a musty room, but still so full of promise.

They caught their moist fingers in the mailbox and left them there to dry.
What was best was nearly always decided (by and by) and written against the softest music. You could not push and toil, one would underplay the sting. Or carry the memory of it, and mail that too.

We stood near where the sheep came to relieve themselves; a crumbled brick wall around that old man's house who never greeted when we said hello.
"He's a mean *******," I said with quiet finality, holding my hand up against the glaring sun and you said nothing, you were looking down at the dirt. I took my things and had to walk past him and his little house to get home.

You're worried that I'll invite you as an afterthought and burn the paper on which you scrawled a messy apology.
Are we so alike?
Wearing a hat in the cold and complaining about the sun on days you're worried you might go darker than you are.
Yes, that would be a pity.

Take note, keep your heads aloft that great height, and do not mind the sun for it tends to burn.
It doesn't turn, rather we do into various things, though not the things we love the most.
We thought and still do when we can, 
etch small markings on every third rock we pass, then we pass (and we pass on what's been spared for them to carry, wear around their necks until the skin's rubbed raw).
Take note; now you are in transition.