You're not seeing him on wednesday. (but maybe in a few thursdays?)
how could you see him when he's mutual friends with a time you're trying to forget? to look at him would mean to face the deserted dream. it's too hard. he's too nice. you're too hurt. you're too far gone. swallowed under as he stands beating over like the midday sun. You're on the run. He's crushed. He's laughing. it's just a misunderstanding. the prodigal son has come and would rather hook your arm than do you harm though you'd depart and stray towards... what? He doesn't know. You're keeping secrets. She knows. and knows. You're lying. He's breaking. Guitars are playing and memories are fading if his meeting was meaning you knew there'd be dreaming there's no way you'd be coming because you've got to-as said before-get running. So it's all wrong. he stands upon. great things but with no one beside to walk along. lonesome road he's back on. you're surrounded in praise but when the lights are off you daze in wonder, wonder if he's okay. if he's still standing strong facing the day. you hope he's strong. he's not alone. but you know. he is. and he's dying. but now it's bed time and you tell yourself you're kidding and really should be sleeping. without a prodigal son who'd rather keep you warm than do you harm who'd stay away if he thought it'd improve your day. and it does. and it will. until....... the dream returns.