I retell myself stories about you.
Memories become legend,
photos become statues,
but your echoing laugh sounds exactly the same.
Why are you alive in my sleep?
It hurts me to tell you this.
I don’t think he’s doing well.
I don’t think I can fix it.
His son’s face, turned toward the sun,
is the most beautiful thing you’ll never see.
You can come with me cross country
and when I stand in front of canyons
we can scream at the top of our lungs.
whyareyouyelling.com 