On a Jukebox That Remembers Me
I met ANGIE in a bar where grief drank quiet,
where HONKY TONK WOMEN spilled perfume and regret.
She moved like WILD HORSES with nowhere left to run—
said, “I’m safer UNDER MY THUMB than out in the open.”
She kissed like a dare and left like smoke.
On RUBY TUESDAY, she vanished into rain,
murmuring, “YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT,”
and I didn’t even try to stop her.
She used to laugh when we lost at TUMBLIN DICE,
but the last time she smiled, she was already gone.
I tried to PAINT IT BLACK, but some songs keep bleeding.
The Rolling Stones still hum behind my ribs.
Every track she touched skips now—
her chorus etched in static.
She didn’t take her coat,
just the part of me that knew how to stay warm.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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