This is me and B.B. It's all just so, so blurry. A simple dream washed away—focus all the strength in your fingers on the sixth fret, sliding down the wire, grasping at mortal coils in hopes of one day, one day among the ranks of Page and Hendrix, knowing never, never—the cold, hard, but simple truth that my fingers will never move that quickly, and B.B. will always be mine.
B.B. has always been jealous. Amanda's been around for longer; Amanda's been through so much more. With me there in the last yesteryear of high school; with me there in countless nightmares of break-ups and broken hearts; with me there in thunderbolts clapping the roof of my car with a dead car battery. With me there, always, even when she wasn't. With her there when she fell face first to the floor, and the tension from the strings snapped her neck in two (thank Hendrix for epoxy), and the fissure, the scar, will always be there, will always be felt on the lower frets abrading the fleshy part of my thumb and the bottom of my palm. B.B. could've done it when I wasn't looking. Nothing like jealousy over scarred memories. . Amanda never blamed it on B.B., but B.B. never denied it.
B.B. wants her gone, wants me all to himself. B.B. can be a felt box of dynamite in a gasoline fire—angry all the time and even in a clean voice has a hint of spite. B.B. hates it even more when he's forgotten in the dusty corner. Sometimes it's just too much. Just too much anger for me. Then again, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's just the right amount of anger.
B.B. has always been jealous. Amanda's been around for longer; Amanda's been through so much more. With me there in the last yesteryear of high school; with me there in countless nightmares of break-ups and broken hearts; with me there in thunderbolts clapping the roof of my car with a dead car battery. With me there, always, even when she wasn't. With her there when she fell face first to the floor, and the tension from the strings snapped her neck in two (thank Hendrix for epoxy), and the fissure, the scar, will always be there, will always be felt on the lower frets abrading the fleshy part of my thumb and the bottom of my palm. B.B. could've done it when I wasn't looking. Nothing like jealousy over scarred memories. . Amanda never blamed it on B.B., but B.B. never denied it.
B.B. wants her gone, wants me all to himself. B.B. can be a felt box of dynamite in a gasoline fire—angry all the time and even in a clean voice has a hint of spite. B.B. hates it even more when he's forgotten in the dusty corner. Sometimes it's just too much. Just too much anger for me. Then again, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's just the right amount of anger.