We burrowed in tight and locked up all those keys.
I have blurry memories, but most of it is just conjecture.
After all, what are they worth now?
Not the nights of menthol in the back seat,
or the quiet days when I just wished to hear you sing.
Everything seems kissed with finality.
Yearning for more and everything and all at once; can't have it.
Most of all,
watching the light flicker in and out of your horse shoe eyes
begging it to stay.
None of it will be left,
come May
so why not accumalate every bruise?
