cloistered in the garden,
we’ll never travel,
or wander past the yard.
you’ll never take me home,
pack a bag, or ride the train with me.
but still, i’ll breathe you in
on car rides,
and in carports, where i can,
because
we’ll never be young again—
not like this.
just two kids,
guilty as sin, for freedom,
throwing rocks at the gates of hell,
laughing, drinking wine under the tree
as news anchors drift by,
like insects 'round the hive.
and i was on for you, babe,
happy to be alive,
never having had you,
never needing to
to survive.