Pine Needles in February

But here's the thing --
I never wanted a fake Christmas tree,
I only consented because I thought it might lead to true love.
In the end, I realized that settling for anything fake
would only lead to a lifetime of consistent fakeness.

I tried to pretend I didn't need my coloured lights and mismatched ornaments,
things you considered "un-classy"...

And maybe I'm not a modern classy girl but dammit,
I have to have something real left to live for!

You never appreciated my records.
Said it was music of your parents generation; stupid, boring
annoying.
I spun circles around dreams and listened to the fireplace crackle of
love on vinyl
and all you could say was "stupid."
Because that's classy talk...

If we don't learn from the past, what do we gain for the future?
Your music wasn't real.
Everything birthed from electric simulations of instruments across the room,
everything having to sound newer and better than what came before.
It's all too much to live up to.

What's wrong with familiarity?
What's wrong with the comfort of remembering exactly where you were,
exactly what you wore
and exactly who you were with
each time the record flips?

What's wrong with predictable happiness and love?

Sure, you like my style now.
You call me "vintage" in this indie world,
say I've got an "eye for the old" and a
"quirky" sense of style.
It's all great from a hundred miles away but at your core
you're more dead than I'll ever be alive.

You have perfection plastic wrapped in airtight containers of a
carefully controlled life.

I'm still frantically sweeping up pine needles in February.

But you, sir,

have forgotten what it means to dance...