The clock has changed involuntarily, but it's making good use of things.
I remember learning how to tell time in an English hotel room,
looking out over cobble stone streets.
I never understood quarter of.
But now I do.
When you moved in,
my town, whose path to the ocean,
contained a certain truth,
My sand became dirt and mud and manure and grime.
I shoveled it because someone had to.
You changed me. You changed you.
Flannel shirts covered your misery, and softball mitts caught
what you missed, but then...
I fell in love and you couldn't handle it.
So you left before I said I do.
You jumped, pirate-style with a patch over both eyes.
Were you scared?
Were you surprised?
Or did you always know you'd leave if we started to see the real you?
I've promised myself,
I will not hate you.
I released you a long time ago.
I allow you to be
the one who gave me
Long Island and her white, blanketing snow.
I allow you to be the one
who let us accompany you to Houston
to watch your idol fall.
What I gather from our encounters is
that tin cans and thumbs
on desolate roads
are for travelers who are running
for those who
long to bury sorrows they never meant to plant.
But the road is also full of people who pack suitcases
without a plan.
Dreamers without dreams,
I watched you
even though you'll miss
what you'll never know,
I accept that