Xerxes:Suburban Asphault

My bed hasn't seen me since the young summer sun 
watched our cruel blood drive ahead of us,
with its hold on our wrists, cold steel and clenched.
Two years of warm moons behind us,

and I've made deep prints in the grey silt, 
standing south of the cold stream, bleeding wild,
like the lonely weathered street
that should have taken me.

I won't believe I've slept 
because the bed I've kept
is that driven pavement,
droning lullabies
that can't bring me back.

And each solstice's sun another red reminder
of the youth we should have had
but gave away
for the pain and the struggle
of finding it on our own.

And maybe the streets aren't paved anymore 
with the dying days of our childhood.
I'll waste the sunlight tracing this pavement
searching for an answer, for some feeling I almost knew.

But there's no answer
in the braille of worn asphalt.
There's no response 
from the lines where our bones broke.
With my ear to the floor,
I'll listen for a heartbeat,
but the only sound
is wheels spinning free.

Overturned, eyes closed, stained red,
our home is dead.