I shouldn’t be here.
This is a love song, not where I belong.
This is the maker, taker, the gamebreaker.
This is somewhere between violin hands
that weren’t meant to touch.
This is where the eyes will blink.
This is where the blood will rush.
I shouldn’t be here,
where fingernail window stains paint vivid memories,
where the silver broach didn’t intend to fall in love.
This is where the voice rose and fell,
where the dress turned as checkered as a past.
This is where cigarettes go to die,
where tomorrow slept with doomsday.
This is the notebook library, the dream anthology,
the bespectacled spies faster than a gun.
This is the crescendo, the roots,
the bud snipped before its time.
I shouldn’t be here.