I hear your grinding teeth.
You’ve given up on that dull mouthpiece.
As I lay awake, resisting sleep.
Though I almost always try to not get caught up in might-have-beens,
they’re surrounding me as I shut my eyes.
I see a grassy road less traveled by and a fog half way down the path.
I see myself in ‘05, water combed.
And I remember those winter nights when the band hung out at someone’s house.
Or the snowball fights in the parking lot of our first rehearsal space,
where we would gather every Saturday.
Or when we’d record at Martin’s place that summer holiday.
I hear your teeth grind next to me.
It’s as soothing as always, love.
It’s a sign of unease, though heavy sleep.
Not like those January nights when your calming voice would whisper
“don’t forget the lights”, but it was darker than ever.
You said I’m being paranoid, I’m getting weaker.