smiths
my lips move silently forming words. windows down. summer night. i ride with you. through sleepy upstate towns, headlights off to watch the deer, or stalled at the empty church parking lot. where fireworks happen, even when we didn't plan them. where we stagger before the crack of dawn. bottles in hand, pants to our ankles. giggling like children...
we stare. at all of the disney colors happening. knowing all of the answers. listen, as walls move and breathe. believe. that this will always be. and we've been swimming in circles. sometimes, the scenery changes. most times, it stays the same. when will we find ourselves under that beautiful full moon...light slipping off of our fingers like gods...
under a sioux city sky...in the black hills of dakota...we are the fireworks.
scorch the earth, pack up the little ashes inside a keepsake box...
*means little ashes, named by Federico Garcia Lorca of the painting by Salvador Dali (a man he loved)