She first appeared one evening, in the heart of the room;
screamed out her usual thing.
She was a symbol of long, flowing black hair,
blowing backwards out into the sky.
And she wrote words in the bags under eyes,
watching me play popular songs in the room of love.
And I don't owe money to the police anymore,
for handcuffing my best friend, Rachel.
After high school, we lost contact, as these stories often go;
she spoke at my high school graduation,
with her gown and bracelet on.
She fell asleep, in the city that never sleeps,
watching me scream at bartenders in the room of love.
And I don't owe money to the doctors anymore,
for sedating my best friend, Rachel.
On the streets of New York City, there's a place I never go;
the place where Rachel (supposedly) drew her final breath.
She jumped from a tenth story window, watching me sing her song
on a TV screen.
And I don't owe money to society anymore,
for murdering my best friend, Rachel.
