he's rough around the edges
a coffee stained paperback that's too personal to read
never on cue but always at the right moment
callouses, and cigarettes behind ears and a strong opinion
red eyes stare out from under a curly mane
with a voice that speaks of smoke and hard knocks
of tears brushed under the rug and living each day by the hour
but when he sings
oh god when he sings
his voice is blue and grey, a raw, swirling power
a stormy ocean in calm waters, jagged rocks soothed with sea foam
losing yourself in the eye of the storm if sometimes that eye looked more like rainy days than clear skies
but it somehow still reflected the sun and you started to notice the light
and you can't help but just sit and listen
because it drowns out the thoughts
and I'd forgotten what that felt like.
