Remember clocking out laughing, howling in the streets, trouble in the reds of our eyes? We were gonna kiss every lo-fi Tennessee girl. Lazy Star legends, you and I. It’s still a five-mile town, Cal. It’s just how you left it, Rocky kids clogging the strand. The tips are still decent and the drinks are still cheap, but all these country bands are damned. Don’t come back, you hear? Remember that stanza you wrote on the back of that oak for the girl sweeping smokes off the curb? Now the Johnny Rockers orbit her with double shots. She just ducks down and drinks without a word. I saw her last night in the ballpark stands, empty High Life at her feet and her head in her hands. Still clearing those tables, still taking those pills. Sweetheart, stay up late as you can, but you can’t go back. Cal, you know how it is when customers spit cross the counter and you clean up the crumbs. And just to forget the sneers and the sweat you swallow ’em back ’til you’re numb. We could’ve sung ’em all down. We could’ve beaten this town if you’d just hung on another rotten year. I don’t hate you for leaving. But sometimes, Cal, I can hate myself for staying here. Tonight I’m sending you 16 bible belt angels. They’ll protect you from the sidewalk cracks. I hope that cold city is giving you hell. I’m sure you’re giving it back. The lights’ll come up and I’ll stumble home fast, like something dark is following me. I’ll smoke on the porch and I’ll pray to the crickets. Maybe tonight I won’t dream. When are you coming back here?