You pull up the car with flashers flashing
on and on and off,
and I complain about just how far
I've got to walk with my guitar.
The doorman, he won't let me in,
and our fingers almost touch
as he traces and x on the back of my hand
so I can't drink with you the rest of the band.
Slippery sneaker soles, they stick
to abandoned slicks of beer,
that reach out to touch the carpet and cups,
so it knows that something's still there,
and I unknot knotted cables
as you unknot knotted thoughts.
I unknot knotted cables
as you unknot knotted thoughts
about when we grow up
and singing songs won't be enough,
and the way our shoulders touch
between the amps and guitars in the back of the van.
on the way home we don't talk.
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