J45

The room is quiet, save for the mangled sounds of an out of tune J45. We’re out of time and out of place. The basic dream of Nashville and her name in lights…it fades away with the slow steady strum of a forgotten song, In a forgotten town.

She’s perfect, here In this Smokey room, with a tripped out gaze and an awkward smile.

Tonight she’s mine, just her and me, hidden away from the midnight stars and the midday scars. The realities of life drift away into some lysergic circle of here versus there. She’s singing to herself, something low and slow. Springsteen, I think, and look away. Lost somewhere in the sounds of her low Appalachian twang. It sounds like home and comfort, like roots I’d severed long ago