ramble ramble ramble
I can't shake the feeling of competition. it's backstage '09 multiplied.
"darlin'," I say, with the best sympathetic drawl I can muster, "we aren't kids anymore." But it's just me and the darkness and the silence of the unknown.
Maybe I don't love you like I once did. maybe it's different. or maybe he winter sky plays tricks on my mind. maybe I'm the one that's lost. "I don't know everything," I say and look away.
It's too cold out here for the backlash of the night and so I light and smoke and regret the angry words. I watch the headlights as they come and go and I gather myself. "we aren't the same..." Me and you. We aren't the same.
it's a silent monologue in my head. Another fight I cant win. I can silence my lips until theres nothing more than a silent nod and a realization that I am fucked and that I'm nothing too you and you'll never quite be "family" and I'll never quite want to be apart of the family dynamic you promote. And So I slink away and crack a Rolling Rock and let the nostalgia of it all engulf me.
And suddenly it's '99 and i'm in a white dress and kid gloves and i'm changing in a basement with a beer in my hand and she's laughing at the insanity of it all and i'm arguing the point of cotillions and Amy Vanderbuilt and there is nothing quite like the look in her eyes. But her daughter debuted tonight, in a white dress in kid gloves and I hope beyond hope her dance card was full and no one made her feel like Old Latrobe and weed counteracted the tradition of the night.