Junebug

Junebug, I remember everything. The blue carpeted floors, the tall wooden doors, I held you in my arms. Junebug, I’d burn down a picture of a house, say it was ours, when we didn’t need it anymore. And that was when I loved you best. We were kids then. We shouldn’t think about the rest.

You’d put the moon in a basket on your bike front by the coast. The way your face lit up in pale grief you were a ghost. You liked to play with darkness, all the universe could give. I was the home you once tried to escape, the dark in which you lived. And soon they’d find you laying there on several different homes. They’d find you laying on their porches, did you need to use the phone? And lure you into their rooms, that was the last I heard of June.

That was love I could not allow. You were beautiful then, you’re just a coke jaw now.

I remember everything. That was love I could not keep. You were beautiful then. I’m still in too deep.