some trips build you up while others slowly break you down
i planted our green love in california in the ground
i miss your stories of dead scorpions in jars
how your grandpa saved his cowboy life inside his car

i thought i heard you say, "may the sun vibrate hope"
but what you meant was, "you'll be just fine on your own"
i can stitch a home up with a needle & a pen
but back on highway 1 is our mountain
i hope you understand these bourbon baubles that i send

there's an ache in the midwestern bigsky grey
it gets caught between your ribs & coughs for days
on greyhound bus seats and stale underneath quilts
it smells like lilacs, snow, cement, and baby's milk

but movement suits me like the water and her fish
the city breeds exhausted loud relationships
i promise to behave and build our family
i hope you'll promise to keep up eventually
i hope youll try to learn to love the road with me

i take 10 steps towards the border
& then 2 back towards michigan
i've lost track of new england
i want to live like water
i've drawn maps out of my veins
& built a home on moving ground
i've stripped the compass from my shoes
i plan to move like water

i think about new york, why everybody stays
chicago will be better, tall windows, golden days
i hope the distance won't shut down our liquored hearts
i hope we push through all the things that will be hard
i plan on forgiveness, lonesome nights, and postcards