Sometimes I wake up at 3 a.m.
Body shaking,
and the phantom beat of a drum beating under me.
I saw my favorite band,
you saw her in my smile.
I wonder if you were ever mine,
if you ever planned to let me in.
Or if I was always destined to be a hazy month,
Something you remember only when you have nothing left.
Nothing about you was hazy.
You were clean cut and hard pressed,
pressing on me like a rib on a heart,
Unbearable at times.
I hope she's not another hazy May.
I hope she has so many lines and hard edges,
that Picasso himself rolls over in his grave.
But I hope you cut yourself on her edge one day,
and get swept away back to my hazy May.