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Chapel of Pines

de Waxahatchee

Crave, desolate, you dive in, we follow along.
I contrive you with whiskey and Sam Cooke songs
and we lay on our backs, soaking wet
below a static tv set.
Conversation flows, counting shooting stars and catfish,
but I'll never make a wish.

Barefoot, parking lot
getting high in Portland, OR.
We echo 17 and we glue it back and poke fun
and it gets real quiet,
I don't care.
Darting with moonshine, truth or dare
I say just what I'm thinking and second guess instantly
and you laugh at me.

We stick to our slow motion memory.
It's 1 in the morning and 90 degrees
and though now it is hovering darkly over me,
it'll look just like heaven when I get up and leave.
You're a ghost
and I can't breathe.

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