Things change. Things are different now.
They are not what they used to be
Between you and me
At best, I’m the lingering aftertaste of sour milk
At best, you’re something to scratch – an itch
Wish we could go back? Too late. I’m hitched
Wish we could go back. To that, at least.
No. I really don’t wish.
It’s a waste of time – time I have not to give
To I open my journal, let my pen shed tears
Because my eyes are stingy; no water with which to grieve
That’s why I don’t do closed doors – my life is out there
In here? It’s too cold and warm
Perfected the art. I already have.
Now I can’t wait for us to take it back to the start.
When we were strangers.
photo courtesy the recording evolution