seriously missing playing music.

the stories that I write, they don’t talk back to me

and the walls that I watch, they don’t sing in harmony.

there’s no piano in the corner and no man to call me home.

I’d trade one good night at Memphis for all these days alone.

I find myself just like my mama living mostly in a memory

and planning out the day in a vein self discovery.

the moon it shines to bright and the sun don’t speak at all

and I spent half of this past season just waiting for a call.

the rhythm in the steps keeps slipping out of tune

and the only friends I got are drunk at the saloon.

I pour myself a whiskey and I curse a quiet breath

and think of all the times I took for granted what we had.