Music – 4

As you can see, I like the music in this one a lot. It scores the highest possible score for a couple reasons. For starters, it has several doo-wop elements, which is a genre I love, and I especially love any Billy Joel songs where he utilizes those elements. Secondly this song has great build to a climax, which includes a phenomenal sax solo. Also I think his singing in this one is particularly wonderful, his voice sounds so rich and calming. It’s also catchy, and just great throughout.

Poetry – 3

I like the way he expresses himself in this. It’s incredibly believable in his poeticism, and the two characters feel real to me. There are no particularly stand out lines, which is why it only gets a three.

Change – 2

There is a climax that the song builds to, but other than that it is the same throughout. It got a two for having a climactic moment.

Insight – 1

I gave this a one because I feel like there are a billion songs about ‘this night’ or ‘tonight’, and a billion more about the complications of you and me. I don’t think he’s saying anything particularly original.

Good – 4

I really love this song. I find it to be incredibly romantic and dreamy, although, I think because of the nature of the lyrics, it wouldn’t be one I’d send to a romantic partner.

In the morning, we're lying in your bed. The light is making its way into the room and onto us through the wooden slatted blinds that cover your entire wall. I'm on my side, facing away from you. You're also on your same side, facing me. Your hand reaches over to gently stroke my hair. 

“I love you,” you say.
I can feel your eyes on my back. 
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I do.”
“We don’t know each other."
"No, I know you very well."
You think you know me after a week. I wonder what makes you say that.
"I read your book. I know you feel the same." 
"I wrote that about something I went through almost two years ago." 
I wrote it more recently, but at this moment explaining to you the distinctions between fiction and non-fiction in my writing seems impossible.
"I do love you. I mean it."
"You don’t mean it."
"I mean it as much as I've ever meant anything."
"You don't mean that either."

I can’t do this anymore. I start to feel a panic come on. I start to get out of bed and look around the apartment.

"I have to go."
"Where?"
"Home."
"Please don’t go. Please. Just stay a little longer."

I think about it 
for too long.

"I can’t. I have things I need to do." 
Great. Now I'm getting asthma from the anxiety. 
I need my inhaler. I look around for my stuff more frantically.

Last night we sat at your kitchen table - Chinese food, two glasses of unsweetened green iced tea, and a coffee.
It takes you over a half hour to brew a single cup of coffee. You have a Mocha Master on your coffee bar, the same one that an ex of mine had. I don’t tell you this information because shortly before you made the coffee you told me I talk about people I’ve dated too much. You measure out the beans using a scale, and use special water you buy at a store.
“Am I going to just be one of those people?” 
I lie despite already knowing the answer. 

The night is long and stretches onward. We sit on your couch. It's probably the worst couch I've ever experienced.
“I hate this couch.”
“Boy, you really don’t keep anything in, huh?”
“It’s probably the worst couch I’ve ever sat on.”
“Why not say how you really feel?”
“You should replace it.”
“Couches cost a lot of money.” 

My couch was free, but I had to pay a guy in New Jersey a hundred bucks to drive it to my place. Your apartment, in contrast to mine, is almost unbearably sterile. It's so organized and clean -
"Were your parents strict?"
"Oh yeah, very. My dad was in the military."
"You had to always keep a tidy room?" 
"Constantly. Plus we moved a lot so I didn't really own things."
I could tell immediately. 
The apartment is huge with only a couple items systematically placed. A record player. A desk with nothing on it. A little TV. A bookshelf with only art books. A coffee bar. The whole place depresses me. Your couch, the worst I've ever sat on, depresses me the most. 

"I only read art books," you say. 
"Well my book is a graphic novel." 
"What’s a graphic novel?"

I look out the window and take a breath before answering. What am I doing here?

This night will be the night you tell me that you love me. I won’t respond when you say it. 
“We’re gonna need to talk about that later."
"Why? Talk about what?"
Oh, come on. I can’t talk about this right now. 

The next morning, we talk. We lie in bed with you facing me and me facing the wall and your hand gently brushing my hair. We talk and we get nowhere. We talk and you don't listen. I frantically get dressed. I run down your stairs, a feeling of anxiety gripping me like a snake coiled around my chest. I use my inhaler. I run out your building’s front door. It’s a cold Sunday morning, and the street is completely empty. I stop. I breathe in. I think about what to do now. It feels like the chance for a new beginning. 
I walk the rest of the morning along the empty streets. Once people start showing up, and the sounds of the city start invading my inner thoughts, I go home. We never end up seeing each other again.