Everything is just within your reach.

There’s no good in your eyes anymore, and it makes you want to drive home, drunk and alone, curse the faces in the wheat, drown yourself in the gold because you can’t let it go, makes you almost miss the smell of smoke in your clothes, makes you want to wear the wool. It’s that need like nothing else, You bullshit with the best and wait for what’s perfect, bitch and moan more than most about where you think your life will take you but you know that’s no sort of pretending. I guess it’s the things that I don’t say, we’re just pretending. There’s no good in your eyes anymore. Nothing is worse than doing nothing, I know, well, who’s hiding it? Who the hell is hiding it? But you can’t stay angry forever, and I know but you can’t stay angry forever, or so I’m told. But the house gets so quiet, sitting here wishing for just an hour or two, alone with you, well, it’s always too personal, always too close to comment, they all mention how tired you look and you realize you haven’t said a word in hours, well, who’s hiding it, who the hell is hiding it? I guess it’s the things that I don’t say.