3 A.M. is the Perfect Time For a Lost Lover
Hunter Blackwell
Now it’s three in the morning and you’re
not changing my mind. No matter how
many chords you learn or riffs you perfect.
Now it’s three in the morning and you’re drunk –
I can tell by the sleepy eyes and cat-screech
strumming. Let it go man; just let it go.
You told me it was me and the piano
that stole your heart, it was my
fingers flying over the keys that flew
away
with
your
heart;
and you didn’t want it back either,
not if it meant giving up my Sunday
performances, the finger snaps in tempo.
I was a fool though, let you play
my heart just like your electric,
fingers strumming with practice.
You’ve wrapped girls around your finger
before I assume, must’ve been easy for
you – just another chord progression,
another tightening of the strings
another capo placed exactly
where you needed
but nothing more than an accessory.
Boy you played me well, made my
hips swivel to the beat; you made
my foot
tap to,
the riff I hummed
making you waffles and bacon.
You said, it wasn’t working out, you didn’t
feel like I did. I trusted you, every lyric
dripping in fictitious harmony.
