I remember one time, you and me, we went to a concert together. Some real s***ty venue in the city, hardly anyone was there. Some hipsters dressed in flannel called themselves the Sexaholics and pranced around the stage in some run-down bar, using lots of metaphors to describe their girlfriends, their breakups, their blowjobs.
I remember, you and me, we stood in the back of the room and you played with my hair, and I would’ve done the same to you, but your hair was too wispy and cut was too short for me to play with. We both agreed that the band sucked a**, but we didn’t want to leave, because the bar was nice and warm, and I secretly didn’t want your perfume to be lost in the wind.
We listened to the discordant sound of the Sexaholics as you almost fell asleep on my shoulder, your breathing slowed and your eyelids grew heavier with every guitar chord. You could hardly stand without my support. So I braced myself for a night of unbearable sound and let you rest your weary head against me.
I loved you then, I love you still.
I love you now, I always will.
On that night you didn’t know that my heart beat your name, or that I’d give any excuse to lean in close and breathe in your natural scent, and be surrounded by your warmth. You suspected something maybe, and maybe, that’s why our night in the city was our last together.
Tell me darling, did you read my mind and find the sweet nothings I rehearsed for so long? Did you watch me breathe your name in my sleep, as if you were a fly on the wall? Tell me, darling, because I’d love to know why you locked me outside of your mind, and were absent enough to forget the key.
I heard you took some other girl to see some other s***ty venue.
I heard you did more to her than just sleep on her shoulder.
I still breathe your name in my sleep sometimes, when I dream about hiding from the police in an igloo made of dirty snow. And apparently, that is not a good sign.