Through another storm
I worried,
but your mother is fine, and
you're still not coming back.
It's a drive I can't make, by morning.
Dogs bark, you disappear.
I annoy you with the
same two low notes.
One stinks, the other screams.
And I can't play piano.
Are you there Nate?
It's the wagon driver.
You left the back open,
or I forgot to close it.
Either way you're on your own.
Were you God, Nate?
Or just some gorgeous meth-head?
If they don't have a bed yet,
tell them you'll take the couch.
Tell them I'll take the floor.
My blood pays by the heartbeat,
with my veins in rebellion.
Bleached is my skin and I'm
sold in pieces,
to the dust, to the dark, to the smoke.
Nate, I cry about it, every single
ride to work. I beg the cars in
front of me for your life. I beg you,
for mine.