you were first chair
i was last.
your brass sax,
and i asked,
“do you want to make this forever?”
found myself kicking your door down
saw you choking on your brass sax
trying to write a love song
about the time you turned tricks
founds sticks
build a home–
full of pricks,
and made me make them nice.
And there we were lying on your floor now
to the left it was your brass sax
the one you played when i was 10
about the time you loved me
and saw me.
you built us shelter
but with a hitch–
and i made you so fucking nice.
so we can’t pretend
this brass sax
isn’t the reason you loved me
but it was the reason i ran
like a bottle with time
you were never a band geek
and you were never mine,
but i loved you i loved you
i swear
like the day i saw a man play his brass sax
and i said “i want to do that”
that’s what you said, too.
we gave up on that dream
when it became junior high political
and we are both too analytical.
can’t be popular without a a social critical
paralytical stance on the litical.
but now we can’t make beautiful music
to make love to.
(at least we were cool).
and here we are dying at the door, wound
up like tight containers of brass sax
trying to put itself together
not with two drunks trying it again
confounded when’s
like drunkards dens
full of then’s
nostalgia is the only thing that made us nice.
nostalgia is the only thing that made us nice
nostalgia is the only thing that i think
can make us nice again.
not like your brass sax–
you were first chair
i was last.
your brass sax,
and i asked,
“do you want to make this forever?”
you said,
“i do.”
(About Cam Hubbard)
