keep your / hand on the rail / if / all / else fails

<< Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2005 - 2:34 pm >>
we don't believe in ghosts

we were never so sure anyways. spit tasted bitter on certain tuesdays, the ground under the house we slept in was warmer than our own skins.

so you had a jerk of a father, i had a runaway mother. we ran out of things to write about when we stopped believing in things like ghosts pretending we weren't so homeless anymore.

i saw the letters spill out of the mailbox, those letters you wrote driving in blue and red trucks away from the town that had brought you up ..