Teams from Luster by Good Air

Packed in a lack of seatbelts
With the windows down.
The car ran hot in mid-July
And just added to the sound.
We left our shoes at someone else’s house
In favor of our bare feet.
The music blared as the sun went down,
And you smelled so sweet.

The shower after getting high and knocking our shins
Was hotter than the seatbelts that threatened to sear our skin.

You can’t believe that I won’t repeat that
You rep the home team when you’re alone. See,
The fight for the last night of our youth in street light
It rides on more than resides in beer cans.
I miss the part where the presence of scars meant
A hardened ribcage at such a young age,
And we’d get kicked out for a kiss on the mouth.
But nothing fazed us, not in those days.

The whites of your eyes would sparkle at night like the shine of wet concrete.
And the hardest decision that we had to make was deciding where to eat.
But just as well I knew it’d go to hell when my culling had caught up to me
And my fucked up surmise of the oft-brutalized late high school ego decree.

Nothing worked quite like a warm summer night to absolve all of our sins
You and I both know that the fireworks look better when the home team wins.

That look you gave me, well what did that mean?
You said, “It meant nothing, we were only seventeen.”

• Pop
• acoustic
• indie
• rock
• Los Angeles