Word Play Photo Stream
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A picture is worth a thousand words (take 2)
I find it odd that I pulled out a photo of mine and tried putting words to it. But I had already put words down on piano for her. I wrote her a song, through subway cars and hardened streets. Nothing was left for her. Over the weekend I met up with someone who once had drawn feelings from me that I had forgotten about, and those feelings were partially for the wrong reason. This story is partially based on that mistake, who once had a name. I just hope the subject of this photo doesn't find this and get the wrong idea.
You're probably out all night and I'm sitting here on the couch with my phone on the table in front of me. The only light is coming in from the old bedroom. That lamp we bought together, our first lamp, it's on a timer. It'll click off at eleven. There's a half-full bottle of gin I pulled out for this special occasion. It's next to the half-empty bottle of scotch I pull out for every occasion. Any occasion, really. It's the fifth of March. The eighteenth of April. It's my birthday. It's your birthday. It's Tuesday at seven.
It's Sunday.
I think to myself it might be time, but before I finish the gin I'd better get some Nytol. Stumble into the CVS and order what I need. Two boxes. It'll be one hell of a night.
Please don't come here tonight. I can't bare to have you see me like this.
I'm lying on this empty spot on the floor, picturing you and him in the TV in my head, and dammit, I can't change the channel. I don't want to see the way he glides his hand around your waist, pulls you close to him, in the middle of the fireworks display. I know you're among a million people. All of your friends, my old friends. I can't change the channel. The kiss. The explosion of red and yellow in the night sky. Orange sprinkles of fire and ash fall on everyone except for me. I'm sheltered by a ceiling and floorboards and a couple listening to the Colbert Report and a roof. And the walls around me. And then there's the TV, with you on top. Dammit, I can't change the channel.
I haven't even touched the Johnnie Walker Black. It awaits me, patiently. I haven't even touched the pills. My arms feel numb. This face isn't my face at all, and I can't tear it off to find my own. Please, just let me change the channel!
Please don't come here tonight.
I can't bare to have you see me like this.
This old apartment has seen better days. This old apartment tells me its memories anyway. This old apartment, my prison, where I have to stay.
Please don't come here tonight. I say that as if you actually would.
Happy ex-anniversary.
You're probably out all night and I'm sitting here on the couch with my phone on the table in front of me. The only light is coming in from the old bedroom. That lamp we bought together, our first lamp, it's on a timer. It'll click off at eleven. There's a half-full bottle of gin I pulled out for this special occasion. It's next to the half-empty bottle of scotch I pull out for every occasion. Any occasion, really. It's the fifth of March. The eighteenth of April. It's my birthday. It's your birthday. It's Tuesday at seven.
It's Sunday.
I think to myself it might be time, but before I finish the gin I'd better get some Nytol. Stumble into the CVS and order what I need. Two boxes. It'll be one hell of a night.
Please don't come here tonight. I can't bare to have you see me like this.
I'm lying on this empty spot on the floor, picturing you and him in the TV in my head, and dammit, I can't change the channel. I don't want to see the way he glides his hand around your waist, pulls you close to him, in the middle of the fireworks display. I know you're among a million people. All of your friends, my old friends. I can't change the channel. The kiss. The explosion of red and yellow in the night sky. Orange sprinkles of fire and ash fall on everyone except for me. I'm sheltered by a ceiling and floorboards and a couple listening to the Colbert Report and a roof. And the walls around me. And then there's the TV, with you on top. Dammit, I can't change the channel.
I haven't even touched the Johnnie Walker Black. It awaits me, patiently. I haven't even touched the pills. My arms feel numb. This face isn't my face at all, and I can't tear it off to find my own. Please, just let me change the channel!
Please don't come here tonight.
I can't bare to have you see me like this.
This old apartment has seen better days. This old apartment tells me its memories anyway. This old apartment, my prison, where I have to stay.
Please don't come here tonight. I say that as if you actually would.
Happy ex-anniversary.
