I am laying in my bed listening to cold rain tap up against my window. I know its cold because Radio already warned me in a text that it was. I wonder when I started sleeping with my cell phone on my pillow, and I wonder why by now it's not a boy there instead. But it was 3am when I reached a full inbox, so I don't wonder for long.
There are 4 or 5 vans full of the people I believe in most tooling around various parts of the country right now. Tour awake hours are different from home awake hours, and I don't mind that they consider me on their schedule. Therefore I am up texting every night, sending homemade hope thousands of miles down the line. I guess it's the scene form of pillow talk.
I slept more tonight then I usually do, having time to dream about one of the vans living along the highway. I woke up, losing how it ended, but the tense pain in my back must mean it wasn't well. My arm instinctively wiggled free of the blankets and I squinted to start answering the 4 new messages since last I was awake. I started sleeping with my phone on my pillow when they started sleeping in bunks on wheels.
Most readers think I hate tour, I've written it mainly as a thing of abandonment and loss. But the truth is, I would rather have 5 vans of the boys I love most scattered around the country making me worry at all hours of the night than have them safely in their Long Island beds. It's where they want to be, and where they should be. Plus I'll worry either way. And I can sleep when I'm old and have fully reaped the fiscal benefits of an entire season of VH1 Behind the Music.
The sun is coming up, and while the last of my band boys gives into rest, I sit up and start working on the 11 pages of notes I took on Casari last night. I have until lunchtime to finish them, which is when I usually expect the next round of pillow talk texts.
...Tera.
"Everything'll Be Alright (Will's Lullaby)" by: Joshua Radin
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