PREFACE

"Wait For Love”

By Kyle Durfey

Love comes in and out of our lives and we have very little control over it. It takes advantage of you, and you take advantage of it. It’s breathing and living…

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-It’s sitting alone in St Louis as the neon fake lighting outlines the mirror behind the bar, the brass taps are dripping wet and the lacquer looks back at you as if to say, “you’re not the only one in here with a sad story.” It’s drinking rum in the old utility room. It’s the Makers moving you in Stockholm. It’s water in a beer can at the end of the night. It’s talking and regretting and talking some more….

-It’s seeing your son being pulled from the womb of the love of your life. It’s a cleansing of the soul and a spotlight on everything you haven’t done yet, on everything you have yet to do. It’s the purest form of self doubt. It’s the purest form of confidence. It’s watching her eyes see the person she’s been waiting to meet her entire life. It’s the most profound thing I’ve ever seen. It’s black rings under your eyes. It’s floating lavender. It’s a painted charisma.

-It’s a dead father with a perfect jaw line. It’s making jokes about it now and faces that look like you're sucking on a lemon. It’s a mother telling her son, “I’m getting older, Kyle” and her hands aren’t working like they used to. It’s the threat of snow anytime you drive to upstate New York.

-You ask her, “Is this new Lou?” It’s the curves of a woman, and the curves of the changing faces in the clouds. It’s times of hot and heavy love making, and times as arid as the Sahara, as lonely as the Pacific. It’s setting fire to frozen miles. It’s a capsule wardrobe and dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. It’s a practicing of length and time.

-It’s looking back with a matched glance. It’s the sound of a woman’s laughter. It’s instant. It’s unbelievable blue and white stripes. It’s the 40 minute drive home. It’s the pity in her parents eyes. It’s a nightingale.

-It’s an ectopic pregnancy. It’s allowing time for more tries. It’s life that hasn’t, nor will ever begin, but somehow the story is older than the trees. It’s a grace in the green leaves on Silvers Lane. It’s a weekend getaway to Berkeley Springs on Valentine’s weekend. It’s dead moths in a mailbox. It’s trying to forget. It’s a jigsaw put together to collect dust under the bed just to be taken apart.

-It’s a year spent in leaving planes that all seem to have red hues. It’s walking down the street to the nearest bar. It’s keeping that number just in case. It’s sharing guilt and bloody marys with the boys. It’s the boys picking you up from the airport while she’s recovering from surgery and wondering, “what the hell am I doing here?”

-It’s knowing someone will say yes when they shouldn’t. It’s saying yes when you shouldn’t. It’s her gin and fresh lime juice. It’s saved postcards. It’s the loons on Sylvia Lake. It’s drinking vodka and orange juice from a toothbrush cup in a strange german hostel in Costa Rica. It’s jazz on Sunday mornings. It’s seeing the Pacific Northwest multiple times, but never with her. It’s forgiveness.

-It’s never being as good as you were when you stole her heart. It’s dying once and then again when everyone forgets about you. It’s on repeat.

-It’s missing your father while becoming one yourself. It’s fighting to not become him and all of his flaws. It’s trying to be like him. It’s him never meeting your son. It’s him asking, “those your fish belly white legs? Or are you just riding a chicken?” It’s knowing you’ll say the same things to your son. It’s wishing you could tell him, “we thought it cliche to have your first be his middle name.” It’s forgiveness.

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It is not necessary to read this before listening to our record, but in doing so, my hope is that you keep these words in mind whilst you do.