The title and refrain of this song are her last request, at her most frightened.
My Sarah often delights in her "broken heart". I don't understand what she means and to request the explanation seems very personal, indeed.
I hate when I feel the nerves around my heart constrict enough to make my eyes just gush. But this is the price. This pain is the price of love, isn't it.
Winter is hard.
Oh is it you say
Where is your ice scraper and shovel
Where is your long underwear
That you never take off
Until you see hyacynth
I turn forty nine this year
And sometimes dawn is so dark
and the night so early i dont get to
see Marjorie!, cloud, Sally Corona,
and TiFFani at all.
So Im in a bit of a funk, like every winter
In quick succession
Huge amounts of work and pressure
coldness that no amount of hot baths and cashmere can cure
and aching fingers (this new)
a birthday i like celebrating with as few people as possible
Holidays that make me quake with desire and terror
And a new year
Yeah, we'll have one of them
Think on the books you didnt read
the people who left the party
Bowie, Prince, Cohen
And last week after wrecking the garbage disposal
and installing the new one
I could feel the muscles that unify a ribcage ache
The next day, my back goes out.
And how is it you know
your meds arent working
Well, I'm writing, aren't I.