| goodbye, milan. you were good to me while it lasted. |
[20 Feb 2012|06:53pm] |
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music |
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who's buying me a drink when i get home to ny? |
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there's no other place i'd rather be tonight than in this hilly graveyard recounting all of the ghosts from my past. i come here like i'm waiting for you to creep up from the dirt beneath my feet, and fuck knows i'd run screaming like a bitch if you did. fuck also knows that you're not here. you never were. still, i come home and i come here, and though i leave my guitar in the trunk of my car, i can still hear yours. i consider your guitar alone a ghost, and your voice is his companion. they crowd this clear-cutted patch in the woods as thickly as they crowd my mind when i'm too lost to see straight. i imagine you soothing me with a song, patting me on the back, telling me that everything will be okay. the truth? that never would have happened. you weren't much for serenading, you'd have slapped me on the knee, and you would have told me that there's a chance it's not going to be okay. there's a change that everything is about to go to shit, but here's what you do, son. you get off your ass, stand up straight, and deal with it like a man. now get me a beer from the fridge, and tell your grandma to hurry on supper. i'd take your truth over the bullshit sympathetic pats on the back any day of the week. so maybe i'll make a bargain with the powers that be. i'll fess up to my mistakes and you can come back to be brutally honest with me one last time in that way that always stings at first and makes sense later. i threw her away. i turned my back because i was fucking terrified. i wrote a letter of apology but never sent it. i bought a ring and never put it on her finger. i fucked up, and before spending two weeks alone in my apartment with a broken nose... i didn't know how to admit that. there's my confession, spoken to a gravestone in the middle of nowhere. i've done my part. your move.
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