When I Face into the Wind

We’d paint at the S Bridge, in the Summer of ‘17. Underneath the August moon, we’re dangling our feet, and you tell me that you’re hurting, and I tell you can’t leave, on the S Bridge, in the Summer of ‘17. The freight trains go rushing underneath. When I face into the wind, it feels like they’re coming right at me. I tell you that I’d save you, and you tell me you’d save me, on the S Bridge, in the Summer of ‘17. At the school house on North Allen Chapel Road–left abandoned to the ivy–we break in from below. I boost you through the floorboards. You paint flowers in the cold, at the school house on North Allen Chapel Road. On Christmas, in soft cover of snow, I hung bouquets from the piping–baby’s breath and rose–and I tell you that I love you, but I bet you already know, at the schoolhouse on North Allen Chapel Road. Got our own place at Canterbury Green. The bathtub’s way too small, but the two of us still squeeze. Hung the roses in our bedroom, drank a bottle of JD at our own place at Canterbury Green. When we first learned that you were meant to be, skipped classes for the doctors, got tattoos we couldn’t see. Named you Willow when we met you, and we knew we were complete, from the S Bridge in the Summer of ‘17.