What I'd fear'd for so long
Simple. Quick. Plain and painless. Like a Band-aide, like super glue. Like a soul coming undone under the weight and strength and faith of you.
Packing bags, shoving all I've got in a black busted suitcase, and getting in the car to leave all this rubble, all this scavenged rubbish behind. So say goodbye to me, say your farewell. I'll see you in September, when I'm half another year older. I'll see you when the season's change, when the leaves turn sage, when the wind blows over another leave, another page. And another tale is told that we'll tell your kids when we're older.
Load up all this pretencious, precarious bull-shit in a fruit basket backseat and the trunk of my car, 'cus I've got to get going... 'cus I've got nowhere to go.
Pick up my guitar; I'll write a song for you, about you, to you, for you. I'll hum, sing to words that I've written in my mind and on my head. I'll sit in the corner of coffee shops in downtown Boston, where I've heard the coffee's alright - and I'll just think, just dream, just kill myself for having thought - one last time - of you.
Or you'll remember me on your way to Atlanta - and Albaquerque, Texas. And Chicago, Illinois. Or just the sunny down-south, where they claim they're still getting rid of the old racism. But I know where it's worse, up in the north of here. Where it still gets cold in the winters, and they still throw rocks at windows and bricks into living rooms, and they still hate you and I - because we're different.
God forbid.
I though you'd love me. God forbid.
I though you'd need me. God forbid
Forbid the things I thought you'd tell me, still...
Reverie, motionless, like a whispered prayer in the great halls of your old cathedrals. In the alley-ways of your older streets, with older buildings yet. And old folk keeping old shops and old tea houses that still bring you tea in a pot with a spoon and cream and sugar - and maybe even one of those knowing smiles on their face.
Damn, how I love this city.
Damn how I love the scape I find in it - in getting lost there.
In losing you there.
In losing me, my mind there.
In losing my soul there. And probably for you, to you.
I'll be home one of those days, you see. I'll get it together and I'll stop eating with swine - and I'll be home someday. And you'll love me for it, and you'll dine with me for it, and you'll make me sick from it. And you'll embrace me and hold me and keep me locked away in the highest room and the tallest tower and the coldest staircase up to the thinnest spire for it.
And you'll say, I'll protect you. But I'll believe you.
Because I'll love you.
Because I'll need you.
Because I'll be a jacked up mess, too.
Because I'll forget where all these bags, where all these things came from. And I'll forget how to get home. And I'll stay with you --
because what else, on the face of this smouldering planet, would I do but to exist in peace with you.
-RK
Packing bags, shoving all I've got in a black busted suitcase, and getting in the car to leave all this rubble, all this scavenged rubbish behind. So say goodbye to me, say your farewell. I'll see you in September, when I'm half another year older. I'll see you when the season's change, when the leaves turn sage, when the wind blows over another leave, another page. And another tale is told that we'll tell your kids when we're older.
Load up all this pretencious, precarious bull-shit in a fruit basket backseat and the trunk of my car, 'cus I've got to get going... 'cus I've got nowhere to go.
Pick up my guitar; I'll write a song for you, about you, to you, for you. I'll hum, sing to words that I've written in my mind and on my head. I'll sit in the corner of coffee shops in downtown Boston, where I've heard the coffee's alright - and I'll just think, just dream, just kill myself for having thought - one last time - of you.
Or you'll remember me on your way to Atlanta - and Albaquerque, Texas. And Chicago, Illinois. Or just the sunny down-south, where they claim they're still getting rid of the old racism. But I know where it's worse, up in the north of here. Where it still gets cold in the winters, and they still throw rocks at windows and bricks into living rooms, and they still hate you and I - because we're different.
God forbid.
I though you'd love me. God forbid.
I though you'd need me. God forbid
Forbid the things I thought you'd tell me, still...
Reverie, motionless, like a whispered prayer in the great halls of your old cathedrals. In the alley-ways of your older streets, with older buildings yet. And old folk keeping old shops and old tea houses that still bring you tea in a pot with a spoon and cream and sugar - and maybe even one of those knowing smiles on their face.
Damn, how I love this city.
Damn how I love the scape I find in it - in getting lost there.
In losing you there.
In losing me, my mind there.
In losing my soul there. And probably for you, to you.
I'll be home one of those days, you see. I'll get it together and I'll stop eating with swine - and I'll be home someday. And you'll love me for it, and you'll dine with me for it, and you'll make me sick from it. And you'll embrace me and hold me and keep me locked away in the highest room and the tallest tower and the coldest staircase up to the thinnest spire for it.
And you'll say, I'll protect you. But I'll believe you.
Because I'll love you.
Because I'll need you.
Because I'll be a jacked up mess, too.
Because I'll forget where all these bags, where all these things came from. And I'll forget how to get home. And I'll stay with you --
because what else, on the face of this smouldering planet, would I do but to exist in peace with you.
-RK
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