she's going and she's going and she's leaving you behind,
dust bowl style, all covered in the ruining sand.

she's going and you beg but she's going and she's on the road in california without you. she's falling into the grand canyon without you, she's sleepin in motels under neon lights in sedona and jackson and marietta without you. you told her you didn't care, but she's there and you're still here and goddamn you're in a rut.

you couldn't pay so they're leaving on a plane without you, falling into the atlantic ocean without you, leaning tower without you, trevi fountain without you.

you should get used to this, you should, leaving acts, all dust bowl styled. you should write notes on their maps reminding them to remember you, as they write their name into the stars with tour shop pencils, as they kiss the road and blush as it burns.

they can't love the road, the sky like you could, can't wish on sunbeams like you could, not give it all and all like you could. you had the wild heart they wanted. they bought one instead.

she said she's leaving and you waved, why did you wave? why didn't you stowaway under luggage, face looking in the back mirror eyes towards the sunset. why didn't you run with her?

dad pulled out an atlas this morning, spilled with coffee rings and lipstick (nevada styled). he traced her route and sent up a prayer. you cry. she's leaving and you're glued.

you needed this, but you're stuck and withering and you could be there but no. somethings are built for us to want but never have.

i can almost taste the way the highway must feel, dust and angel scented, like a starburstin in america.