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Tradition
It's tradition, play Nirvana and empty every bottle in sight
We drank my mother's forty dollar bottle of wine and I cannot
remember the delicacy of it
I recall, crossing the river with you, by way of a fallen tree.
We shared the last few cigarettes we had, and we felt skilled enough to
catch fish with our hands
After awhile, our notions had slipped. The moccasons were waiting below the rocks for
any single misplacement of our shoes
We didn't die then.
The next time you came around, we repeated history.
We took your keys and got into your SUV and decided the
field was the safest place to drive
We parked in the woods and spoke of Jeremy and how
he loved butterflies
You cried, as if the wound never healed
We made our way back to the field, and you taught me how to
do a killer doughnut and I begged you to let me try
You finially gave in.
You told me, you've never let another girl drive and you
made me kiss you on the cheek and
I remember telling you that it was things like you and me that
kept me going
Eventually you took the wheel back over. You had more to show me.
It was somewhere around 3, when we flipped upside down
The road gave proof to Enertia.
We forgot there was a six foot dropoff and we
realized it a few seconds too late
I tried to tell you, Matt.
I shouted so loud but
the pavement was louder
It was minutes, I remember, hanging in the air
You crawled into the broken window and I fell, like that tree probably did
The glass entered from all angles, played needles with my skin
The trooper said we were lucky, for the seatbelts
Otherwise, we'd be dead.
Or potatoes.
I kept thinking of the difference
and
there wasn't much of one
