i'm sitting in my room with the lights off and the window open--red cloud sun spilling in and my room really isn't dark enough for sleeping. but it's dark enough for rest. i feel awkward and stupid with my clicking; clicking digits on my phone, clicking keys beneath my clicking fingers and my clicking teeth in my clicking head. this is the sound of money spent on cigarettes and fuel to move your car and playlists and conversation given free of charge and meeting strangers outside the produce side of grocery stores for a smoke and awful stories, at the expense of sleep and my parents to be content. but the return was worth it. because--not often, but only sometimes--i feel alone.
you played a concert for me last night.
the venue my worn down speckled carpet, your back against my bed.
you blurt out quick coughs and curses between chords and searching fingers. holdonwait. waitwait. justasecond. and i laughed because you can hear it too. i think your songs should be on the radio. every single one. the ones you make up on the spot are the ones i write down to reread later. i think i like the idea of improv songwriters. the lack of censorship is alluring to me. and honestly, i could listen to you sing for days without losing interest.
and when you speak, your voice still sounds like music.
i like how you rhyme words and phrases and talk in strings of poetry.
unraveling.
unraveling.
unraveling hearts and heads.
