every pair of headlights
in the rear-view mirror
follow me endlessly

and I swear
I SWEAR
I hear footsteps downstairs

It's not the sun,
only the light.

It's not the moon,
only the night.

Daisies, tulips, petunias,
orchids, and roses.

The flowers all speak to me.

I perk up my ears
to better hear them
when they whisper
in hushed undertones:

"she loves you not."

so dull my tongue
with your sandpaper ears

and now that we're older
maybe the difference in years
just won't matter

because I don't care anymore
and you should've seen that
from the other side of the door

and the things I've forgotten
will line the seams of my mind,
and every last nail driven
into the coffin of my memory
will echo in my ears
just like they always have

so I'll quietly stare at these
photographs of tomorrow night,
when everything is alright,
and I'll just keep trying
to remember that they are
underdeveloped and overexposed