[ This is just the end ]

This is just the end

of everything I thought I knew:

Headlights in thunderstorms

and War All the Time in the back of the car;

all those times I couldn't think

of what I should do with my hands.

So by all means, 

make this more uncomfortable for us both.

I spent that whole year bleeding out in your bed

so I wouldn't have to go back home.

That was the turning point.

That was when everything

started slipping out of control.

We wanted to set fires.

We wanted to be set free.

We wanted self-destruction, suicide,

without ever having to die.

Well.

You know.

There's so much I can't remember. Like: 

When was it that I walked away 

from one or another childhood game,

not knowing it was the last time I'd play?

There are a lot of ways,

infinite ways,

to fail to describe a feeling.

So I gave you The Weakerthans

and you gave me Dashboard Confessional.

It seemed like a fair trade at the time

but lately I'd just as soon

keep John K. Samson,

myself.