90 minutes

 

I crossed the ocean to get to where you are.

Guided by the headlights and the glowing of the stars.

If my arms could reach across the midwest,

I’d hold those waiting hands and give your body rest.

 

If you go,

I hope you come back home,

But don’t call.

Because trouble seems to follow,

I know that it’s not all your fault,

But just go. Just go.

 

I swam the ocean in the front seat of my car,

Drove 100 miles; should have never come that far.

If my fingers could retrace the path of your wake,

I’d find myself underneath the weight of all your pain.