at night when I'm listening to the radio
sitting on the green futon where
we used to sit together
on the same broken couch
you first kissed me on
Well you're not next to me now.
Why do maps cut me like knives?
Why do mile markers hurt my eyes?
A postcard with a picture
of blue and purple southern mountains
"Wish You Were Here"
in pretty script at the peaks
would never have
enough space to write in
No comments:
Post a Comment