Wednesday January 11, 2016
I don’t think that your songs are about me, but I pretend that they are. I imagine that you want me more than anything, that you’d take me anywhere. I imagine that we live together. Some place with exposed brick and an espresso maker. We can see the skyline. I just stare at it, all day, waiting for you to come back from the studio or a songwriting session. I stare at the expanse of city, and I think about what I might wear to the next awards show, or what cologne I’ll spray on my chest before I hear your key in the lock. I wait a few days before shaving because you like a good five o’clock shadow.