It's a poem, dig?

A Letter to Alice on her 21st Birthday

Here are the facts.
You tore out into the forest
With no shoes on and
Asked me to carry you home.
We moved your boxes
One by one
From the room
To the car
To the air.
(you had an adorable disease)

where you forgot they were yours
and dumped each one over
until a business card
for a tumbler maker
landed on the street
in Pilsen
and was winded to
the end of the country
where I drove
with my dad
to get it for you.

In San Diego
There is a gully
In a mountain made of
Packed sand.
A single pine plank
Stretches over the nothing,
you can’t bounce on it
Unless you have
arms to
rush into at the end of the trip.

You went into your room
Then, made a door
I didn’t have the key to.
And were very loyal
To your convictions
when you decided
To forget about me.

The front desk told me
You filled the bathtub with gin,
Took a picture of yourself bathing,
And taped it to the front of the mini-fridge.

I paid your room bill and
I called your name into the darkness
For a couple days,
Until a tree tapped me on the shoulder
And said you lived inside of him,
But weren’t home right now.

I drove the road back East,
Dropping your shoes, one by one,
Out the window of my
1994 Cutlass Sierra,
which explains the phenomenon
of one lost shoe on the highway.