Inspiration is at a low tonight in the booth of green pleather and far too much use…

Coffee, cigarettes, and waiting for a friend to show so I can spill the proverbial beans.

“Good night, Guitar Boy” echoes in my mind. The words to a song I can’t start or finish and the middle won’t come out right, either. I know a hippie who’s younger than me that could co-write, though.

It’s funny in a melodramatic way how words can make me smile in a text, but a simple conversation in person brings out tears and silent sympathy nest to the fireplace.

I wish I could just fall asleep with the boy.
Curl up nest to him and sing each other to sleep and find some semblance of comfort in a warm body with the same shit going on.
But then I’ve been told I’m co-dependant and someone else by my side would be a bad idea right now.

Fuck it. Is it too much to ask for a musician who’s songs give me good dreams?

Maybe, now that I think of it. Maybe.