BIKES

I’m never gonna see this place again
With these colonial red houses in my eyes
The catacombs we roamed to kill the day
While mom tried hard to feel alive

The lower-middle class, it finds a way
And so we packed the car with all that couldn’t stay
To circumnavigate the lower-48
But none of it was ours to take, you know

It’s the way I make myself miserable
Over and over

I’m never gonna see his face again
The crooked bottle rocket scar from that July
We set fireworks at John Birch billboards
Outside county lines…
I’m not fine

My god, I’ve changed
I’m losing myself to thinking this way
Get a grip, kid
C’mon

When you left through the window 
To get to my house
Slipped on the rooftop
The fall knocked you out
Staying up late, you’re a thorn in my side
I couldn’t help but thinking, I’d sworn you had died
Youth’s indiscretions of time spent alone
It’s all we had but our skin and our bones
Look at the frame, and how I’m getting old
And it’s gone
I know that it’s…