Hands in my hair,
she wrote about the day that we would find it
in her small beat up notebook
and left the paper out in the rain
so the ink would bleed and run.
So I told her to let it go and try again.
Blood running through the pages
of something left behind.
And she said to leave her where the grass grows highest
A crying daughter and a hand held promise.
But the guns never caught the right image
The cameras were too busy at the wreck down the street.
And I sat on the phone for hours
waiting for a word to be spoken.
Waiting to know what to do next,
but it never came.
Just a mother calling out for her daughter
and some old friend letting herself in.