It's 12:40 in New York, a Thursday
A week before B leaves for California

And I'm walking past the bodega down on Havemeyer
I see my friend Geoff, I haven't heard from him in a while

He says, Last night Erik Rhodes died of a heart attack
I knew you had a thing for him a few years back

You followed him down to where his skin began
Down those lonesome limbs
You memorized just how they'd bend

You called him up one night when you were feeling low
You waited for an hour, but he never showed

And the way a horseshoe curves and envelopes you
I remember at Industry you'd watch him from across the room

And there were no trophies found in his dresser drawers
Or change in the jeans he wore the night before

And there were no laurel leaves found beneath his bed
No saved e-mails, never sent

Just the cold, pale, blue of computer light
The softening of his skin like dandelions

Cause what's there to do with flesh after it wastes away
After eight, tired years of verses and refrains

And this morning I was so hungover from my father’s wine
Just as a twin brother awoke into an only child

What am I gonna do now?
If only I knew how


from Last of the War Novels, released July 20, 2014


tags: folk


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Ryan Doyle

Hi. Sometimes I write songs.

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