without a doubt,
that love, for me,
is not in Texas.
He's in Seattle,
on a bench by
a park that houses
a playground of laughter
despite gray skies.
And what if he's in Boston?
He's leaning against the walls
of a museum.
Rebelling against the signs
that proclaim of its prohibition.
He puts art to shame.
Perhaps, he's lost in Brooklyn.
He crosses all lines and bridges,
but never pays for it.
His terracotta coat blends with the bricks.
He wants to be lost in the rust of the city.
Montana sings of home for him.
As the horses run wild and free,
he sings of his tunes.
He plucks every string.
He plucks every thing.
Dear Philly, will you bring him to me?
I think he runs the length of the city
to get to the shop that sells old vinyls
and smells of fresh roses from next door.
Maybe, just maybe, he'll love me, too.
But Texas never felt home to me.
He's always hurt me,
and I don't think my heart could forget.
If it could, I would not be looking for love,
anywhere... other than here..
