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He’s going to lie to you – they will all lie to you.
About where you’re going and how long you’ll be gone.
Around two thirty two on one twenty-four, he’ll think twice – then knock on your door.
You’ll be wearing filthy wool socks and worn out Birkenstocks,
a bark and blood colored wool sweater that used to fit you better and
crusty pants soaked with beer and frayed seams that haven’t been cleaned in weeks.
You’ll be too drunk to see that you haven’t been clean in years.

He’s going to lie to you and you’ll board a plane and
you’ll put in blown out head phones and rest your head on a warped wall with double paned plastic panels.
You’ll get lost in a million memories as your chin hits your chest and
you’ll wake up to wobbly desert pavement while distorted Panic echoes in your ears, then
you’ll stumble down the aisle and wander off the plane and
your soul will scream but your lips won’t budge and
two familiar faces will meet you – it won’t make sense but you’ll continue to trudge.

They’re going to lie to you and you’ll get in a rental.
You’ll remember or forget as you drip with sweat and from the back seat
you’ll squint at a crooked mirror to see a sunburned swollen bottom shelf version of your former self.
You’ll drive past your exit and up a road and under a bridge and take a left as you send a text and
you’ll walk into a room that’s stuck in the eighties. A stranger will close the door and they’ll tell
you they’re worried and can’t handle it and don’t want to see you like this anymore.
You’ll shut down and they’ll try to make you talk, about what’s going on and then say you can walk but,
You’ll have no money and they’ll have your phone and these familiar faces are leaving so

You’ll be on your own.

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