I used to close my eyes and pray
that the car I was in would crash
and then I would cry because
I didn’t want to die, but this life couldn’t last.
See, pretty much all of my past
was a tragedy, full of imperfect eulogies,
and I just needed some fatal travesty,
along with some medication and a few other amenities.
When are these memories to fade?
They seem to stay the same,
regardless of the day.
Sometimes they come to life in the shadows of the night,
so I’d close my eyes and pray,
that the car I was in would crash.

I crawled into your bed
a little past 3 a.m.
and spoke into your sleeping head,
“scoot over.”
And sure enough,
the blankets scuffed
as you shifted your weight
and picked away at the rust
and told me that you wouldn’t mind
if I wanted to stay the night.

I watched a man play baseball alone
in his backyard
while a young boy watched, next to a tree,
occasionally retrieving his *****.

You told me I was obsessive,
and too nervous,
but that’s what makes me an artist,
and you stopped and stared,
and said, “Don’t you dare
turn this into a song.
This is not how it plays out in my head
as you got out of bed,
and said maybe you were wrong,
and I shouldn’t spend the night,
but by that time, I was tucked in tight,
in my marmalade cocoon
staring up at the moon
and I saw the face
of a woman whose grace
was unsurpassed by anything
and I mean ANYTHING
I’ve ever seen in my whole life.
Standing there, grinning,
I could feel the beginning
of something more than I was prepared for.
I started to talk to her,
which apparently shocked her,
and I woke to you screaming,
“SOMEONE CALL A DOCTOR!”
Tears rolled down my face
like the staircase from the attic
and you told me to get up
and stop being melodramatic.
You told me I was obsessive,
and too nervous,
but that’s what makes me an artist.