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.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I write because maybe you have felt this way as well. Because none of us truly love or ache alone.
View all posts by Erin Rose Belair
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