This isn't home.
This is West, blowing winds.
Connecticut, missing everything we ever knew.
The orphan period, the music at 4 AM.
Waiting for a soul to pass by, to ask where your memory was left behind.
Semblance of privacy.
And tears too public.
Take a tissue from the boy's roommate.
The one who's drunk and spewing out words he probably means all too well.
The smell. Legs spread and alcohol in cubicle-sized rooms.
And you strive to get a moment of yourself.
If you even remember who that is.
Sugar and nature.
And the words of what mattered most.
You can walk back.
The rest of us have the pain of a million miles.
