I’d give you the time of day, any day, any way you want to hear it.
See, like right now it’s 12:02 on a Saturday night in the middle of August, and we’re laying on a beach, just you and me, waiting for someone to ask us to leave.
And now it’s 4:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. We’re eating frozen peas in rocking chairs on the porch of our old, white house. There goes our baby girl, down the driveway in the passenger seat of a green pickup, next to a boy she swears she loves. I love your wrinkles.
What time is it, you ask. It’s 8:28 on a Sunday morning. I’m leaving, for school. I don’t know when I’ll see you next, and all I know is to get to you is a 3 hour and 15 minute drive in a car I don’t have. On second thought, it’s not 8:28 on a Sunday morning.
In fact, I believe it’s 7:30 on a weeknight evening. The baby’s crying and you're watching football, I’m half asleep on your arm. I move to get the baby, but you hold me back and go yourself. I watch you walk, as exhausted as I am, from behind and realize I love being in this with you.
Now it’s 9:54 on a Wednesday night. Your curfew’s 10 and we have to make this quick. I’m not breathing, I can’t tell if you are. Here we go, deciding our futures on homemade theories and sparks.
