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Someday, when the Perfect Drummer shows up on my doorstep, this one’s getting the full-on power-pop treatment. Well, actually, whatever, “this one”. When that happens, they’re all getting the full-on power-pop treatment.
A postcard from last April…
Your back seat’s cluttered with our morning haste:
Best of Bowie in a Promise Ring case.
I scraped both knees on the way to the train for you.
You know I’m always twenty minutes late,
you know I think that your stupid puns are great,
and now you know that I’m gonna wait for you
’cause I’d been waiting for so long
for someone else to value spontaneity
when you said, “Let’s buy that house.”
And now I’m waking up again like I knew I would,
and it’s taking everything I’ve ever learned.
It was never so easy to fall so hard.
I want to always have fading rubber stamps
from shows we went to on my wrists and hands.
I want to always be making crazy plans with you.
Headphones seated low and tight,
cables dressed for four-hour flight:
I’ll be in Portland at 9:25 with you
’cause I’d been waiting for so long
for someone else to value spontaneity
when you said, “Let’s buy that house.”
And now I’m waking up again like I knew I would,
and it’s taking everything I’ve ever learned.
It was never so easy to fall so hard.
Waking up again like I knew I would,
and it’s taking everything I ever learned:
All the mistakes that I ever made then
and every trace of wisdom I ever gained from them,
every time I ever second-guessed myself
when I tried to be someone else,
whenever I couldn’t stand to just read my lines
was practice for this time.
My whole life feels like practice for this time.