that bushy brow boy
Ex-psych major, skeptical, safe in a ditch. The music you listen to is melancholic, the words only, the tune otherwise sweet and easy to succumb to on the way to your dreams. Your dreams are perfect for what they are: pitch black, the echo of the song in your heart not any more than a hum.
When you kiss, it’s flat. That pitch is awry and it just never sits right when you pull away and they’re chasing, lingering, y’know. Not that you’d kill for it to be sharp, no. But you’ve played guitar for a decade long and think nothing of scales and the notes on a page, so there’s some consistency there. Still though, like this dissonance helps anything, really. You don’t know. You don’t know everything, and there’s just not enough light for the ditch to feel warm this winter. It’s only fall right now.
The difference between home and a hole…
Oh, don’t be clever.