He’s posing in shoes that don’t quite fit. Her hair is neon and she’s been off running since. Grief is running in shoes that are too big; identity’s trying on countless glass slippers to see if they’re It. But don’t worry ’cause we’re young and we’re twenty and we have time–
(When Regina sings “the animals, the animals, trapped-trapped-trapped ’til the cage is full”–don’t you see? That was us. We were trapped and confined ’til we’d conformed to something dull in black shoes and torn Oxfords.)
–and now she wears home wrecking shoes from Vegas, he wears globe-trotting shoes from Spain. Us? We’re just scuffling around in our state-bound slippers hoping one day we’ll finally leave.