Nineteen years
 Just old enough to think you've seen it all
 This stop sign's an undramatic curtain call

 collection of all my fears
 Collecting thoughts
 I caught my breath 
 in a newer knapsack to salvage what was left of you

 I packed my things and carried them home
 and then I carried you home

 Safety surrounds me
 in late light security

 vision quest on city streets
 obscuring where the city sleeps all night.

 The headlights don't work this time

 The headlight are held on the turn signal's swan song.

 I sold your things to call up a cab
 and you picked up the tab

 300 bucks
 your body's on the [bad word] 
 Engine is locked
 the rope is in the [bad word] 

 I counted backwards
 I counted hours
 I counted ways to pick your frame apart