meet me in Boise.
middle of the country,
middle of our lives,
where nothing’s supposed to happen
and somehow does.
we will go to a dive bar.
low ceiling, bad lighting,
a jukebox that still believes in itself.
the bartender will have the eyes
of someone who’s seen worse
and kept the lights on anyway.
we’ll drink cheap
like we’re arguing with time.
laugh too loud.
pretend the past doesn’t exist.
it’ll sit between us anyway.
quiet,
like an unpaid tab,
like a scar that doesn’t ache
but never shuts up.
we’ll talk about nothing.
weather. music.
who moved away.
who didn’t make it.
who got sensible and disappeared.
this is the middle—
not the climax, not the wreckage,
just the long chord you hold
because you forgot how the song ends.
outside, Boise hums—
traffic, neon,
some kid starting a band in a garage
because rage still needs somewhere to go.
we won’t fix each other.
we won’t promise shit.
we’ll just sit there,
two bodies proving
we didn’t imagine everything.
meet me in Boise.
we’ll make noise
quiet enough to survive.