Nineteen years
Just old enough to think you've seen it all
This stop sign's an undramatic curtain call
A collection of all my fears
Collecting thoughts
I caught my breath
in a newer knapsack to salvage what was left of you
I packed my things and carried them home
and then I carried you home
Safety surrounds me
in late light security
A vision quest on city streets
obscuring where the city sleeps all night.
The headlights don't work this time
The headlight are held on the turn signal's swan song.
I sold your things to call up a cab
and you picked up the tab
300 bucks
your body's on the trunk
Engine is locked
the rope is in the trunk
I counted backwards
I counted hours
I counted ways to pick your frame apart
