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Pale july
all you spoke about was California.
the mid-west winters got colder every year, and
i walked by the cafe where you told me
your mom stopped saying that she loved you and your brother couldnt look you in the eye.
It doesnt matter what you write about or listen to
youre telling me your chest hurts and your dads still in the hospital
he'd quit his job, and you'd move schools
you came home hardly breathing all the time.
I saw you in the summer
pale and hazy, youre july, and
Mike took off to france but came back a little different than before.
would things be better if i'd come back to stay
