To want the seemingly impossible (Old friends in my living room) Is to sit in a question mark: Basic, but breaking my heart. Where'd we all go? Into the seams of the economy, Chasing the fragmentary way, Scattering like seed needing soil? But we had the soil, didn't we? Remember the growth, the greenery? The laughter of sun on our shoulders? Maybe I'm waxing memories. Maybe not. No. Nostalgia is bent memory– Missing you, though, is a sorrow Realer than any gilded age gimmick. Doggone it. This is love refusing To let you go. No, no cigar siree– We weren't meant to detach, man, But to solidify, muster deeper bonds. I'll make the call, guys. See you soon?
