95, 50

your hands and your hands and your hands and your hands and your hands, and mine

juxtaposed against this highway, this sky, these trees, your ceiling 

the world can’t seem to fucking stand it—we’re laughing all night in their faces

because we’ve found our place and it’s something they’ll never even know

i almost can’t help but feel bad, i bet our laughs probably even sound a lot like theirs, too

regardless, it’s getting late. text you when i get home?