Grateful.

Grateful.

All I feel is irreverent.

All I feel is the static on your end of the line

And the weight of my own voice in your hand.

Both of us entirely too grateful.

Like a six minute silent phone call is everything and nothing all at once and nothing is worth everything so long as someone else will appreciate the static with you.

And all at once

Like last years lyrics hadn't quite worn off yet.

She wore her collar like her pride,

And her keyring like an anchor.

She was Chicago:

Wind-blown hair every weekday,

But Vegas on a Saturday.

(Not the strip, just the lights.)

Phoenix: never sure if the neighbors would be around come June,

But she's always been Colorado.

I saw her science and her shoulders.

I said, "we're coming back",

And I said that land-locked was never meant to be a tragedy.

I said that 

she was never meant to be a tragedy.

I said that

And bonfires

And the extra eight miles

And good bread, the kind with gluten in it.

And people, as a general rule.

But she wouldn't know,

Because Phoenix never knows if the neighbors are home.