Snow in the summer,
stars that don’t wonder,
some of the things that we’re looking forward to, after.

Pebbles in the sky,
Pigeons that can’t fly,
I, was just a Harry in an old man’s lie.

Blue dry lake,
for heaven’s sake,
why can’t time slow down like crackheads puffing on a break?

Pebbles in the quay,
Pigeons that aren’t free,
She, was just an Emma on an old man’s TV.

And it hurts to see,
in this reality,
where fire cools and water burns incessantly.

And I’m thinking through,
what am I supposed to do,
in the days after you.