I saw the inside of your house tonight for the first time. The three of us sat across from you. We ate peanuts and you gave us bowls for our shells. I looked at your records and held up every one for you and let my mouth hang open in a happy mess. You would tell me a story or say "Yeah" and laugh excitedly and sincerely. You said you couldn't believe that Graceland existed. I can't either but all I could manage was, "Yeah, I know."
You said you listened to it once and I made you cry. And then you laughed, not nervous, but somewhat comfortably. "Not cause it's sad," you said, "but because it's redemptive. I think things like that make me cry more than sad stuff."
I'd like to see you so down you can't talk about what is bothering you and you just stare straight ahead into nothing.
I want to see you as every different character you play.
I couldn't handle tonight. I couldn't handle your face but there was not a time that I denied your eye contact. There is no way not to be there when you are calling me.