it's that same sad song that you request from the band's catalog you say describes you the best and even if it hurts singing, well at least you're feeling something at all. and finally, got my wits, got my 'script, got a fresh pack of strings, got my common sense and thought and said, "well, if you let these notes define you then you'll just be chords that anyone can play."

but far be it from me to call you on your shit when i haven't eaten for days, i haven't slept for weeks and the only thing that keeps me going is a note in my shoe with a promissary postscript that when the seasons turn, you'll be on my arm like a cigarette burn, stuck in my head like a mallory song, but up until then, you'll keep me in suspense with a click of your pen, with everything that you say ... but i can't wait, so i won't wait.

but there will be a time for sad songs on the rainiest of days, a time for community, a time we don't throw bricks but use them to create and have a rebel hand to hold at a protest meet. yes, there will be time for bad loves that destroy the better part of us, a time to fall down and get back up, a time when god is everyman, and when she says she'll be there, you believe her.

yes, there will be a time, with guitars and lovers in hand we wear the t-shirt of a local band we don't necessarily like but we support what they do and what they represent. a time when we give up our daily bread and the comfort of our beds and the shirts off our back, no hesitance, no questions asked.

yes, there will be a time when we're the songs we want to sing, when we're the company that we keep, when we're the lovers we want to leave and the change that we seek and know to be true, when we're good to each other because it's right and you live for me as i would die for you.

yes, there will be a time, to leave, to grieve, to lead, a time to quit your job and throw a dance party; when you toil all week for the gas to get to work and realize you're a slave in every sense of the word. yes, there will be a time for regret, for debts, for death, for letters you know you'll never send, to spend the whole week in bed clutching the shirt that still holds her scent. a time to accept that she's dead. a time to believe she will be free. and we will be released.