It ain’t like the old days,
When a little small-talk,
Some half-assed awkward glances,
Was enough to decide I was in love with you,
And whatever baggage you have waiting at claim.
It used to be,
Romance and summer,
Hand in hand,
Over-saturated orange,
And smells of dried grass,
Long drips of sweat,
Bare assed,
Lounging in sunlight,
It ain’t like the old days,
Now it’s desperate grunts,
By the light of the crack of the door.
It’s gropes along imperfect skin,
That can never live up to the silk fiction of memory.
It’s never finding enough room on the bed,
Like we don’t know how to do anything,
But sleep alone.
It ain’t like the old days,
When phone calls could take hours,
And I always left smiling.
Now,
If I smile,
It’s cause I’ve got whiskey waitin’,
Or cause it keeps you from askin’ questions.
And it seems like my color correction is on the fritz.
