I took another step off the painted porch.
I looked through the doorway.
I thought I saw your reflection through the glass,
But I kept driving. I drove right past your house.
And I think you may have been home, but I don't actually know.
And then you sink into me, through the song on the radio.
I used to have this feeling, but it's been a while, now.
Sometimes it burns me, and my windshield's fucked up.
(I couldn't see you, but you were with me.)
We talked and talked about what I wanted to know about you.
I think I'm making this up. No, because we visited my cousin at his grave.
He was fourteen when he died.
I think he knows how much I miss him, but I'll sing it one more time:
Hey, Mitchell, I miss you.
But let's talk, because I don't like cemeteries. It's so fucked up.
And this is what I think is happening to me.
It seems so far, and I can't see past the smoke in this heated room.
Which reminds me that fighting was stupid.
I just wanted the difference between who you are,
And who you used to be.
I don't want to leave anymore than they do.
I don't want to ascend, I just want to stay here,
With those I love and those I've lost, because I'm so lost.
And then we could all be the same. We already look the same.
We can drive together and talk about religion and politics and love,
And all these subjects we're supposed to stay off of.
It's conservative, but I can change.
I've got an idea, just read to me, from a storybook.
Pronounce every sentence.
We'll fall asleep in my box outside your house.
Hide me on the top shelf of your closet,
Because this box is getting square and much too cold.
I don't think anyone would care if I stayed tonight.
Because if I don't, I'll slip on my front step,
Trying to chase your image in the doorway.
