I’m never resting. Where do you go when things get too carried away? I guess I’m wondering when your friends stopped being as much of a friend as you had hoped they would be. A moment made the change. Oozing sunsets coating us in grace. Shitty whiskey and skinned palms. Promises that summer would last in places we planned to go. I’m buried in the side streets where people like to drive fast- and I can’t move on because I’m still alive and the pavement is crumbling above me and no one is going to fix it. I’d like to think that I’ll rest when the rest of the pieces are put back together, but it’s scattered across my mind like the stars and I can’t keep track of the cycle. The world decided that it was my time to grow up while my body was planted in asphalt, so now the heat radiates off me like fire and I hate the sun. The mourning in growing that causes you to wake up in the early hours of the morning and wonder how it got carried away. Where we all wandered off to. How to dig myself out while finding the pieces. Weeds bloom through the cracks in the asphalt and I still call them flowers. -AMT