there’s a streetlamp on an avenue,

it throws out tiny galaxies of light.

they falter as they reach the outer layers of the cobblestone highway.

the light dances in a soft ballet with the shadows -

a plié that picks the innocence out of allies,

a pirouette that smiles at your doorway.

you might be slumped behind it

pretending the rugged wood is everyone it isn’t.

i hope you are.

if you are slumped behind that doorway,

with the light and dark dancing to a thousand phonographs,

i might be able to imagine you as someone who didn’t need a door.

someone who could take a door and see it as a door;

not a mother,

or a dog,

or a soundtrack,

or a piece of set.

i could imagine that you haven’t become a dramaturge,

that instead you see every movement and static implication

as crushingly real.

i would be able to watch reality wring your chest,

grind at your ribcage,

and that would hurt less -

watching you be torn apart and ground to dust

at the same time

by a reality that hates us both.

it would be the tiniest bit better,

because i can help you fight anything.

i can sand beside you and at least allow my remains to become dust as yours will

and we can blow down the streets together

and be stuck in the cracks together

but i won’t help you fight yourself.

if you hate yourself, i have to let you do it alone