You do you and I’ll do me;
but if you do me I’ll do you one better.
I’ll set you free or buy you a sweater
or some other **** I think you’d like.
Maybe I’ll just keep sitting here
on this oversized armchair next to Jer,
and continue wondering
what you are up to,
what you are thinking,
how many blinks you are blinking,
how often your neurons are linking.
I’m thinking,
and I’m thinking,
but still the numbers don't add up.
I'm sinking and shrinking and
I’m getting real fed up
with feeding the schlupp
inside my chest with pinings for you;
for the way you look in my favorite dress,
for the way you find beauty in every mess,
for the way you should be here and not there,
or I the reverse,
but you’re there and I’m here
and it feels like I’m cursed,
like I'm Jesus Christ left in the manger
to die of thirst and exposure.
Im a twenty-year-dead motor struggling to turn over,
or maybe just a dude with a storm in his head
that’s getting steadily older
and rapidly sober,
who's missing a shoulder to press against,
and lacking defense against
A soul that grows perpetually colder.