He's thirteen and trying too hard.
Too slow,
Last to know,
Everything done,
Put on just for show.
Dave is tired, so very tired, and he supposes he can count himself lucky since he has the next three years to rest. Three years with his (new, old?) sister and without his other friends. Three years to dwell on all the mistakes he's made since popping that game disk in. Three years to catch up on all the sleep he's lost in the last…no, not day, it's been so much longer than a day, hasn't it? He should know this but he doesn't and it bothers him. He doesn't know enough, never knows enough, and then when he does, it doesn't matter.
For a Knight of Time, he's awfully late on the uptake. Which is ironic.
Everyone is missing,
Disappearing before your eyes,
But not the good ironic. It's the kind of ironic that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Like metal.
The kind of metal used in a shitty sword.
Take a look around you before
Swallowing another sigh
Spent so much time away
Didn't know you were needed here.
Everything's too scrambled and the short troll is screeching and all Dave wants to do is drop over. Rose looks at him and asks, are you okay, and he says, yeah, of course, im a grade-a constipated body builder ready to get this dump rolling.
Nothing blocking your view no more
Things get crystal clear.
At least, he hopes he says that. Or something like it. But there's too much noise to hear himself speak and everything is quiet and loud all at once. Space is empty, vast, and Dave knows shit about how sound travels besides the fact it comes out of your mouth when you rap, but he thinks that if space collapsed on itself, the deafening roar he hears right now would be it.
Should've known, should've stayed
Shouldn't have got up and walked away.
He wants things. He wants more than a stupid note tossed into a random bucket like an afterthought.
He wants Bro. He wants Texan heat, not the dusty, empty air of some space rock. He wants concrete. Not steel platforms, not magma, not purple spirals reaching toward the missing sun, not a boiling pot of stew for defecient alligator nak-naks to cook him in. Concrete. A jungle's worth.
He wants to see blue and green text mucking up his chat logs. He wants to riff on sucky movies and obnoxious buck teeth. He wants a girl to tell him things, not major things, but things like having to feed her dog or when she thinks someone will get a package in the mail.
Scratch (no, never again) that. Fuck the mail.
You're here,
But what's it matter now?
Dave wants.
Too slow,
Last to know,
He wants….
Messed everything up, man-
Why'd you even try?
He doesn't know what he wants.
You should've stayed at home
But it isn't this.
Now you've missed all the good-byes.