I had a 3 in 4 shot of keeping you.  It was the middle of the night when you decided to leave.  "So you’re just going to go?"  Your pants were already on, and I could see in the orange light, your hands, pulling belt through loops.  "Just like that?"  I sounded panicked, exactly how I didn’t want to sound.  I wanted you to want, not to have.  In my white underwear, I was beyond protecting myself, and you were leaving in leather shoes.

"Relax," you said, "I would never break up with a cover band playing."  Indigo girls were doing their rendition of Wild Horses.  I also had The Samples, Bush, and The Stones doing it.  So really, based on that, I should’ve had pretty good odds that we’d stay together.  But songs can be reduced to lyrics and notes, regardless of who’s breathing life into them. 

If you’re leaving me in the middle of the night so you can get sleep in your own bed, it won’t work.  In the morning, there’s yellow sun and green anxiety, and all I’ll want is to make cut-out dolls of our night, discarding you with the toothbrush I’d just purchased on your behalf.  I don’t want your silloute when it’s easy.  I want you when it’s hard, when you have to endure the Indigo Girls, or at least half the bed.  With me.