The words used to come so easy, but now writing seems so hard.
Did I kill off the empathy left in me?
Or did I just leave it at the bar?
Like a discarded pack of smokes, forgot there was still one left
We swore we’d be in Nashville by now
But we’re still staring at the beach
The longer I stare at you
The longer you wait for me
Not much left of those Broadway dreams I see
I’ll split the gas money with you if your friend will still let us crash
They’ll never understand us
Bartender’s bumming me a smoke, he said he’ll share his pack.
Alex Kemp (she/her) is a poet and film writer. Her work focuses primarily on the southern working class, memory, grief, and exploration of interpersonal relationships. Currently, Alex lives between Brooklyn, New York and the Alabama Gulf Coast. You can follow her on Instagram @_alexiskemp
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