On a Wednesday night, I think of you.
You’re my grandmother’s type of girl.
Your kindness reminds me of my grandfather
and he would’ve told me to take good care of you.
“Be all for her,” he told me in a dream last night
when I drew myself up sketched out
next to you.

And I know that you’re a good girl.
I swear I do.
You’re in your bed, off your feet,
the cushion is empty next to me.
The ice melts in the malt and I salt
these pity wounds.

Honey, was I the wine when you wanted rye?
Baby, does my tongue lick a changing mind?
You pour from my fingers in a fall,
sky turns black out my window and kids scream.
You consume every corner of my mind,
but I don’t mind.

So be balanced, if that’s what you have to do,
but lean my way.
Thoughts of you comfort me ‘til break of day.