I took pictures from the car window, these colored blurs of time,
and left them for you by the pay phones because i can't call or write.
It's just been too much time.
The road was without winter glow just dreary landscape
and the whimper of the radio and a rubberbanded picture of your face
around an old mix tape you'd made.
I still think i'm going home,
I packed my things in crooked lines,
and took a pill i nicknamed hope to change this mood of mine.