I met an actor, guitar hid behind his door. Lent it to me after taught me these three chords. I met a climber ten steps down the convent hall. Brushed teeth together, swapping stories by the bathroom stall. Are you a friend of the heart? Or a friend of the road? Since you came in I’ve been aching to know. I met a fighter who hugged me tighter than most, warm as a fire burning a bit too close. Are you a friend of the heart? Or a friend of the road? Since you came in I’ve been aching for a true friend of the bones. Father told me, “In the city, it’s naive to believe people you meet will see you, reach out, and fit like a glove: they’re busy running in the long run. Search New York with a fine-toothed comb, every heart and every road, find what I found long ago: You are your own friend of the bones.”

I’ve lived with prog rock bassists closet racists a schmuck who will not shut the damn fridge anarchists gold-star addicts I’ve lived with everyone Ivy leaguers fake ID dealers a couple of couples who were touchy-feelers bucktoothed lap dogs but why keep track cause I’ve lived with every… one-trick pony cooking Rice-a-Roni psych majors who think they know me Marxists from Texas and straight-A sexists tax evaders locked-out neighbors stay-at-home moms who salute dictators men who burn toast and maybe some ghosts I’ve lived with everyone but never have I and never will I room with my best friend don’t room with your best friend I’ve lived with squares and sticklers body chiselers borderline abusive ticklers couch potatoes drunk barf-volcanoes I’ve lived with everyone stoic preteens hopeless ski teams pre-school teachers pre-morning caffeine Mormon doormen but who keeps score when you’ve lived with everyone White rappers whiter rappers the dust of crushed-up saltine crackers drama queens causing scenes and dicks who piss on sublent toilet seats dicks who piss on sublent toilet seats dicks who piss dicks who piss dicks dicks dicks dicks chronic kleptomaniacs steal my shit and sell it back clean the kitchen once then act like they deserve a plaque cats, rats, goats, horses hordes of human-eating roaches and guitar solo divas never have I and never will I room with my best friend don’t room with your best friend we both go to sleep at twelve regularly clean ourselves and when you fart/fuck, I can't hear it but if you moved in I fear my friend would become another song lyric closet bassists prog rock racists a schmuck who will not shut the damn fridge anarchists gold-star addicts I’ve lived with everyone and it wasn’t any fun but I’ll live with anyone but you

It started with a question you kept locked between your lips, and ended with strange fireworks burning down a bridge. They reached under your old sweater and pulled on the loose ends. Lightbulbs flickered as you fell in and out of bed the night you started kissing all your friends. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. You read aloud the diaries dancing in your head, and gerry-rigged a ferris wheel where you once played pretend the night you started kissing all your friends. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss kiss. Spinning bottles followed you since middle school. Nobody’s an idiot when everyone’s a fool for you. Yesterday’s dumb thing to do and tomorrow’s common sense finally hooked up the night you started kissing all of your friends. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss kiss. It ended with strange fireworks burning down a bridge, and started with a question you kept locked between your lips.

If you had a ballroom in old England and I the courage to ask for your hand, we’d both know every step. If we were peasants scaring off crows from the fallow fields we have sown, we’d face no fork in the road. But we’re neither noble nor peasantry— no familiar choreography. Burn me a mix CD, and you cook for me tonight. If we were pawns in a world war writing of battles and babies at home, we’d predict each pen stroke. But we’re neither soldiers nor addresses— no familiar choreography. Burn me a mix CD, and you cook for me— write our own dumb choreography. We may step on some toes sometimes, but dance with me tonight. Burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD tonight burn me a mix CD and you cook for me— write our own dumb choreography. We may step on some toes sometimes.