I can hear your voice; it's like a siren repeating:
"These walls are waterlogged with the weight of a childhood,
the secrets we keep in the drawers of our dressers.
We slept in beds that were broken in half, rearranged while we dreamed
of windows caving to the pressure from the storms the summers would bring.
You're like the leaves, staining portraits of your absence in the concrete.
We walk the path, wishing you'd return like the red season we watched you leave.
The air was cold then, your breath made a map of your movement,
it was an unsure cloud, as wandering as the words you locked inside it."

I would sink in that heat if it would take me like your arms
Make a grave for me, if you'd trace my epitaph from the shapes of the clouds.
It's this silence I've been walking through, I can't see my reflection through.
This season's like an ocean, but it won't let me drown.
It's too cold to breathe,
but I can't make the shape of a home through the fog in front of me.