And on that baseball field
I saw a future that never happened 
And in the tenderloin in a room that smelled like burger buns 
I thought maybe I could be an artist
And looking up through my skylight
I pretend that my house is a boat
And deep enough into the old train tunnel
I turned off my flashlights
And no way I’m going back home
But maybe only for a little bit
And the night I told Aaron that I loved you
He told me I should never tell you
And on that same night, with the flashing street light 
He strapped his wristwatch around my ankle
And in a hotel bathtub in Manhattan 
I cried reading a newspaper article given to me from my mother
And on the day we overdosed on caffeine 
I tore out pictures of horses from old magazines to cover my bathroom walls
And late one night, on my way back home
I saw a sitting coyote staring up at the moon
And on the coyote’s way home
It came across dinner