For the past ten months, the fifteenth always came and went with no particular meaning anymore. It killed her every time. All she could think of were his lyrics, "All eyes on the calendar. Another year I claim of total indifference. To here, the days pile up with decisions to be made; I'm sure all of them were wrong. Into this song, I send myself and with these drinks I plan to collapse and forget this wasted year. These wasted years: devoted friends, they disappear. I'm sorry about the phone call and needing you. Some decisions you don't make. I guess it's like breathing and not wanting to. There are some things that you can't fake. I guess that it is typical to cling to memories you'll never get back again. And to sort through old photographs of a summer long ago. Or a friend that you used to know. And there, below his frozen face, you wrote the name and that ancient date. And you can't believe he is really gone, when all that's left is a fucking song. I'm sorry about the phone call and waking you. I know that its late, but thank you for talking because I needed to. Some things just can't wait."
...That's what cowards do.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment