I followed you through a hundred cities
I watched your eyes
I wanted to soak up your movements
through the screen, feel the smooth
easy vibe of your presence
be all electric on my skin
because I can’t forget your hands
because the night I saw you on stage
in the city that is home
to my most recent pains
breathing the air that has been
my poison of choice in recent years
has become the night to hold
my future nights against
knowing they won’t measure up
knowing the music won’t be pure
because you won’t be here
knowing the passion will be tainted
knowing the moonlight will be jealous
the stellar configuration of December
abrasive against these city streets
in the wake of that brush with fate
the threadbare silk of the tired silence
snagging every so often on the question,
did I rise to the occasion
did I bring you as close to the fire
as I could,
did I make sure there would be
echoes of me in every bottle of Jack
you would ever pour from after?
The lives, they try so hard to intertwine
on nights when they feel most acutely
the threat of unraveling.
I have a stubborn void in my heart
for people whose calling it is
to make such nights happen.
You think you’re only making music,
you call it a performance,
for us mortals you’re invoking dimensions
where freedom is the default
and sin is just shorthand for ‘you need another’.
Another song, another exhale, another chance
another shot maybe of courage
maybe of vodka.
We all wake up the morning after
scents and debris of other people’s lives
that we had pressed a little too tightly against
the previous night
in our hunger to spark something
that lasts longer than a hangover
still clinging to our clothes, our necks,
the center of our tongues.
Back to our prisons.
Back to the processed and packaged
and missing your rawness.
And you carry our most sacred parts
with you, in the next cities that
the insatiable road takes you to.