Here is a toast to the ghost made
From burning busy bridges
And bruising our fruitful lives.
We wished the stems to wicks of candles,
But we vandalized our eye for youth.
Water clears the throat that spits fire,
The seeds we knew couldn't grow
To root through space and time,
Across highlited planners
And mapped out state lines.
The glass clinks as a long standing dial tone,
A sound that took a while,
But left a message on the home phone.