Surely don’t stay long, I’m missing you now. It’s like I told you, I’m over you somehow. Before I close the door, I need to hear you say goodbye. I’m on planet 3 inch mattress crashing in an East Village studio apartment with an old high school friend. Two months earlier it was Granada, Spain with her. She, on a continual cosmic wander, a quest to see what was beyond the flamenco caves a mile past the Alhambra where the gypsies lived. She took me there and I danced, clapped like a gringo, heard the guitar, for fleeting minutes felt Moorish. Restless with the colder weather, my years of autumn instinct gnaw and probe, tell me it is over, that her steps are not mine. Some tears, a bus ride to Madrid, a day at the Prado, then gone. Here now, walking by a phone booth on Avenue A, I want to call, but she doesn’t have a number and I’m broke anyway. Those were the days when cross-continental breakups were final, no email, no texting, no Skype, just Mazzy Star.
Halah by Mazzy Star: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzWYUomBpwg