Carry Me Home

The bartender plays that song for you, he smiles when you burst into a million happy pieces, you cannot help yourself. Just come back, after, she says, and you know you will. He called you today, and you have a place to stay, you have good reasons to come back and you will, but today it doesn't matter.

Today the bartender plays that song and all the rampant stress falls to the wayside, it doesn't matter either. Nothing does. A ghost from your past, from so many years ago, sends you a picture of words you scribbled, such terrible handwriting even at 20, in the front cover, and it couldn't have come at a better time. the basis of all my crazy adventures and ambitions in my life. Oh, Jack. Ten years later and am I not living it now? Is this not the dream? To weigh no more than your suitcase, to always carry a ticket in your back pocket?

And all the anguish of months in limbo, all the nights of doubt, they disappear. Your alarm rings three hours from now. Tomorrow, at this time, you are in New York.

That is what matters.

Tomorrow, I'm coming home.