In between the ashes and the flames, there’s a song that burns brighter than radio waves. About the remnants of my idols and the shadow of my shame, about how they scatter like the rain and I can’t stop crying cause You won’t stop calling my name. Calling my name up from the ashes.
—  John Mark McMillan

bring me back to the days where you were always with me, where we skipped school to cook cheap lunch and we would watch netflix until your roommate came home. where the rocks were our getaway and the house was nowhere near. where we missed prom to go boating, and we laid in the back of your dad’s truck, falling asleep to the sound of a muffled radio and waking up to the dense fog. where we got free passes back to the old theater and we drove away forgetting what films we saw. you weren’t too tired to stay up passed 2 AM just to talk. you would watch me run the bases and I’d watch you play guitar. we’d drive up to Bossie’s just to get those one-dollar slushies to cool us down in the hot, hot summer heat. I swear we spent every paycheck from the cleaners on those things. we rode Tom’s longboard down the seven hills, and watched each other fall face first onto hard cement. remember how we had wounds in the exact same locations of our bodies? that gave me chills. just like the lightning off the shore of the Atlantic, where we spent hours lying on the lifeguard tower in the pitch black night. it reminds me of the time where we squeezed into the crowd to get third row at the festival, where the wind lifted smoke from the stage. and the lightning struck near. hundreds huddled together under big white tents, shoes forever lost, hair a mess. just like the fireworks show that went wrong, and we ran to your car to dodge the low ashes, and I somehow thought it was fun. where we hummed Mumford all the way down to the A&W we loved so much. we only cared about the present time and worry was only to come. those days are gone, but I always wonder where you placed those free passes.