(Off) The Wagon
I'm sitting (alone) on a parking garage, writing you letters that I will never ever send. Maybe someday, somehow, we will meet again, and I will tell you what I never wrote to you. I can put my pride and stupidity and turn-ons aside, but to never see you again is fictional. I can write about it, but I won't let it come true. This is not who you think its about. Even when its about you, you don't know its about you. I can hear patio personalities packing up to sleep the liquor night off, but in the empty parking garage space facing me, I can only not talk about you. I've held your clothes as ransom so you'll have to say goodbye to me. Goodbye. Look at your departure time, look at the station pulling away from your train. Your mother isn't the only one worrying about you tonight.