Growing Up Here (Means You Don't Wanna Grow Old Here)

I made a promise not to die here, drinking beer on railroad tracks before bottles stopped raining in the woods. I promised and it would have been a promise kept, but I was met with an antagonist who said,

“Look, you’re a pragmatist, and know you are here for good.”

I made a rule once I was too old to smoke pot in front of the high school, I would never reminisce, but I did and I do, threading an era through my fear of change.

Because it’s strange, watching meadows we played become perfectly placed duplexes, entire sections of a childhood built over. Where we laid beneath the stars counting solar systems and naming objects in the distance they built a mall, and doll, the night sky has adapted

but somehow,

horizons are colder.

I resolved once
that first kiss had come
and gone, the bond would be
worth all roads that led to it.

But I’m here
and it’s not

the red brick

day

dream I pegged it to be,

just hangovers of
the heart being weaned off
the bottle.

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