You talk with your relative once a month.
Write it down in your imaginary notebook:
The advice, the lies, and the grievances.
He says that the sky bleeds in the afternoon,
And that the rich poison your bread
With carbon dioxide.
You bite your lip
not for words unsaid,
But because they’re chapped
and you can’t control yourself.
You’d try to console him
If you could just get a word in.
And sometimes you do,
But it go over his head.
So instead, you put the receiver on the table
Leaning back with a pensive sigh
Wondering how the day’s already gone
Being sure to turn your ear every ten seconds
Depositing the necessary “uh-huh”s
You cut it short like you always do
Keeping sure, that the sky goes without wounding.
When you confess your love,
The inflections are genuine.
You close out the song with a drink and a smoke.
Lying in bed,
You wait for your beloved to return
So you can drift in the wake of better times.