Everything I Thought Was Made of Gold...

At 21 I should be filled up with more than just questions that go unasked and unanswered, I always hated thinking of the things I'll never know because I never tried. I'm rising up in some things, filling up the wine glass in my sleeve with something expensive that overflowed the rim gallons back. I'm just watching it go to waste, pooling around my toes underneath the nails and riding up my ankles. I'd drop to my hands and knees and lap it with my tongue but my feet are dirty and I don't like alcohol. "Here it is, just where you said it would be." The road is where we find ourselves every morning, every night, and all the time between. We spend our time turning pages of books with barcodes we'll leave behind in Bertrand, maybe keeping a few of its meanings in mind. But that is hard because our minds are ever elsewhere, the same elsewhere though we tell ourselves it's different. We're down the road under some lights that never burnout, always shining bright atop the grass that never freezes when it snows, a soft place to hold our dreams so that when they fall hard, if they fall hard, at least they won't break.