I sometimes think that I would like to make you a mix CD with all of my favorite songs.
And sad things that remind me of you. And write you a letter to go along with the mix.
I imagine you getting the mail and being happy to notice my handwriting spelling out your name. And I hope that it brings you some momentary joy. A bright spot in a dull day.
I imagine you coming in and setting down your things and placing your keys on the hooks, and opening the envelope. And I hope you think something nice about me.
But just as I go to set out to do it.
And just as I start to map out the tracks in my head.
I think to myself
I think I’ve already done this before.
I’ve already sent you this song before.
And I’ve already written this letter.
And I wonder if you keep them in a box in your attic.
And could compare them,
line by line, phrase by phrase.
And say, yes, you’ve said this before.
Or, yes, you have put this song on every single one of your mixes for the past 10 years.
(what does it mean to you?)
And I see history repeating before me with nothing that I could ever really do to stop it.
And it seems that I’ve always liked the same songs for as long as I’ve known you.
And we can always lie down on your floor and hold hands when the good part comes in.
And scream at the top of our lungs amazed at how well we both know the lyrics.
And cry silently as our heads touch one another’s. Alone but not alone.
So, I’ve started to keep track of everything that I say.
I’ve started to write down every song that I play to you, across telephone lines and miles and time.
I’ve started to remember the things that I’ll likely soon forget.
So that soon enough there will just be songs.
We will be dust.
The houses will be laid down to the ground.
And the memory will be just a glance from a waitress from across the room who has eyes like mine.