I put away dad's guitar and stopped working on your present.
I could write a different song now, but for me.
Is this how it goes? I don't remember.
My fat, unused fingers are fumbling over the keys.
Your aphorisms are tired, and now you lump me in with the rest.
Sure.
It's all still there.
I still laugh at all the phantom jokes that you make.
I know you too well,
and you don't know me.