Friday came in sideways with a cheap excuse to stay. I had your name beneath my tongue and nothing nice to say. Saw you leaning on the jukebox like you owned the fucking room. Still wearing that same dead smile like it never went out of style. I said, “Man, you look expensive.” You said, “You look like hell.” I said, “That’s the first good thing you’ve said to me in years.” You always loved the exit when somebody else paid the bill. You called it keeping options open. I called it standing still. So here’s your Friday night confession: I was better when you left. You took the easy version. I kept what you couldn’t wreck. Keep the photographs. Keep the stories you sell. If anybody asks what happened Tell ’em I got well. You started talking about the old days. I started watching your hands. Still reaching for the easy answer. Still blaming circumstance. You said, “Hell, we were young.” I said, “We were fucking stupid.” You laughed like that was mercy. I laughed because it wasn’t. The bartender changed the channel. Somebody killed the lights. You looked around for an audience. I looked you in the eyes. You always loved the wreckage when you didn’t have to drive. You called surviving stubborn. I called it staying alive. So here’s your Friday night confession: I was better when you left. You took the easy version. I kept what you couldn’t wreck. Keep the photographs. Keep the stories you sell. If anybody asks what happened Tell ’em I got well. Here’s the part you never saw coming: I don’t hate you. That’s worse. Because hate would’ve kept you interesting. So here’s your Friday night confession: I was better when you left. You took the easy version. I kept what you couldn’t wreck. Keep the photographs. Keep the stories you sell. If anybody asks what happened Tell ’em I got well. Friday keeps moving.
