The suburbs, the alcohol, the wrong words, the loneliness
It can tackle a year and turn the smell of comfort into a warped sense of disillusion.

We’ll never escape this place
But with magic ice cream blends, half a bottle of rum, and a couple ping pong balls
We sure as hell can try.
And we will.

But if we look closely enough,
Past the clutter of lacrosse sticks, beer cans
Million dollar homes
And the dreams our parents forgot about in order to buy them,
We’ll notice how gorgeous the asphalt looks in August
And how beautiful this town can be once we remember all the birthday wishes that came true while we were busy catching butterflies
And all those times we locked hands with our neighbors during a game of Red Rover
Secretly hoping that the boy on the other team would race for one of our arms,
Knocking us off balance and breaking the monotony.

We sure did crash into our wishes.
Miscommunication knows no age.