The perfect thing you wrote, bonfires in my fingers You were not alone, I could feel what you were feeling In that song I wrote, I felt so close to leaving You were holding tight, spoke without me hearing
A message on your machine, lost in cellphone speakers You know what I mean, though you’re not close enough to hear it Somehow I’m not here, always hooked on endings I broke that off this year, but I lost track of how it felt
And if it really was so awful And if I could have known you for real He got so drunk and high, this sparrow That he went crashing through the window
Spring comes in like teeth, chewed up, thawing ice He’s hurtling through the trees I can’t see your body But I can feel your might, lost in autumn breezes You are something wild I almost believe it
Though you couldn’t be my friend all last year I couldn’t be there for you either You had to black out on some liquor To not confront the basic idea: We feel the same thing just as awful We feel the same pain just as awful And as convinced I was you hurt me That I was nothing more than a bully
Fun fact: Edith Wharton and Henry James had an amazing friendship. As their friendship grew, Wharton began to call James “Cherest Maitre,” while he called her things like “admirable Confrere” and “Princesse Rapprochee.” They discussed dinner party gossip, bummers like going to the dentist, and, of course, writing. We want to see if you can tell which literary bud wrote these gorgeous lines.