You dyed your hair again, cut your bangs so thin

I can’t hide in front of them no more.

You ask me where I’m from. “Is it a place to live?”

It is, but, then again, that all depends.

The air will wet your hair and across the tare

you’re asked. “Hey kid, what’s with your colored friends?”

I found a place to go to witness Nature’s show,

twenty miles east of Pine Grove,

where the sun sets in to a brook, which snags itself upon a nook

silenced by the presence of gravestones.

As I lay my head amongst the dead, the irony in me took note:

Today I feel like anywhere is home.

I’ve not been anywhere since four years ago.

You ask me if I’ve loved, or variations of.

There was a girl of sense I never mad.

I’d sink in the back of my desk as she’d blow on the back of my neck

whispering, “Thanks for the mix-tape.”

She had a voice like summer breeze, lucid as an evergreen.

The kind that puts insomniacs to sleep.

Well I guess the truth remains I rained out our chance of day

when I kissed that girl with a flower for a name.

It seems we never spoke after letters I never wrote.

Writing her always felt like home.

I’ve not wrote anyone since four years ago.

You sent me a snake-skin diary

and said you couldn’t promise me

the gauntness that proceeds my cheeks

was seen in all your poetry.

You’re feather-pillow talking sweet

and nervously telling me

your favorite discrepancies

of childhood and virginity.

The things you did you say you don’t

and the things I will I probably won’t

cause there’s no river capable to flow

from Virginia to Colorado.

You ask me where I’ve been.

I said in Hampton, imagining the voice of a girl in the graveyard wind.

She had a voice like summer breeze, lucid as an evergreen.

The kind that puts insomniacs to sleep.

Sing to me in a graveyard Lauren Reed.