We’ll make it real loud.
4 years, we’ll barely speak,
and you’ve got a husband now.
I have Waxahatchee creek
and you used to come here with me.
I need a heavy heart.
Allison’s only calling me when her life’s falling apart.
So, I pour it tall and talk to myself in my head alone.
But it’s really better until I learn how
to gracefully let someone in and back out.
But I won’t worry about it right now.
Say what you’re thinking.
I’m watching thoughts dance around in your head.
You’ll let me down easy or you’ll beg for my empathy.
Your lips are moving, your mouth is so close to mine.
I almost can taste your spit, pilsner brew and cigarettes.
If it keeps up we’ll run out of time.
I’ll write you letters and I’ll write you songs
and you will be endlessly distracting and then
it falls flat onto paper again.
You’re in the Carolinas and I’m going to New York
and I’ll be much better there,
or that’s what I’m hoping for.
And we will never speak again.