punching mirrors, punching yourself,

the wheels on the bike that I got you for Christmas
shook hands forever with the blacktop.
if you told me you were a rocket,
I'd have believed you,
looking into the stellar gold of the skies,
sleeping nights at airports just waiting.

and when I got that letter
that was really meant for the moon,
I knew some day we would have to die.

but until then I bathed myself in concrete,
so you could find me because you're always looking down
and no I'm not a penny,
but I have your backpack that you hung on the limbs
of dead knees and trees, and noose craned necks.

no, you're not a killer and I believed you,
you were just a bully and you ran away
I bet you were just tired of beating yourself up