You always forget the lyrics to the song we play fourth on our set list, the song I wrote. Right before every performance you write them down the inside of your skinny little arm in black sharpie cursive. You grab the mic when you start to forget and read your curly words of my lyrics. But I don’t think you are really that forgetful. I think you know the lyrics of this song are about you. I worry you will ask me about them. I worry you won’t ask me about them.
Waiting for what probably won’t happen
traps me in this house.
I’m distracted from my errors
by broken promises and coincidences.
I’m watching the news too much
and eating too little.
You make it hard not to go back to previous plans for the future.