You were always better in theory.
The images I created for myself,
the moments I wished we were in.
The hypothetical has no abrupt ending,
you see.

Once upon a time,
I believed you were telling me about 12-string guitars.
On my bed,
about how it's easier to play them because the strings are so close together,
it's like you can hit all the right notes without even trying.
You tried to make me sing that night.
But then I realized I had that conversation with someone else,
in a different setting completely.
It changes our ending,
you see.
The bed sang it's own lonely song that night.

I can tell myself all the right stories,
weave my own intricately, beautifully detailed and intoxicated rhythms,
but that won't bring you here.
Oh no, lord no boy,
that won't bring you anywhere closer to me,
to here, to now, to us, to a "we".