I told the stars to shut up.
They weren’t witnesses. They were worse.
They kept spelling your name,
blinking slow, like pity,
glinting gallant-
like that ever saved anyone.

I walked past the summer we called ours
like I wasn’t still stalking it.
Like I didn’t prowl on purpose,
like I didn’t rehearse your alibi,
like I didn’t pray
(for prey.)

I was fine with the trees, the oil stains,
the way the sun pretended nothing happened.
I could go days without hearing an ice cream truck,
or seeing a sun-burnt stranger
and thinking: maybe the universe
rerouted you into someone
I could almost survive.

You once said I was dangerous.
And by once I mean
I wrote it down
and heard it forever.
It’s in my lymph nodes,
in the poems you pretend not to read.
It’s in the version of me
you kept almost loving
but never quite chose.

You called us perilous.
Or maybe I did.
It’s hard to tell, since
I’ve been writing you
with your mouth shut
for months.

I keep checking the margins
for your voice.
All I got were
the noises people make
when they’re trying not to drown,
but pretending to wave.

Why is your name still more siren
than sentence?
Still more blood than bruise?
I made your absence
a body I slept beside,
because I kept waking up
guilty.

I never served,
but I wrote the ending.
Put my hand on a Bible,
bit my tongue so hard
the truth still tastes like you.
Wore borrowed pearls,
and swore to God
I never loved you more
than the day you didn’t show up.

I would’ve done time for you.
I would’ve confessed to a crime
that didn’t exist
just to hold your hand once
on the courthouse steps.

You said I was dangerous.
You were right.
But not in the way you thought.
I told the whole truth-
just not out loud.

You didn’t get convicted.
But I still can’t go back
to that summer
without thinking the tan lines
were warning signs,
without getting subpoenaed
by the sky.

Some nights,
your name still tries to get in
like a burglar.
I play dead,
tell the stars to shut up.
But they unlock the window anyway.
They spell you out in light
like they want me to remember
how it felt
to be the crime scene.

I would like to call my first witness to the stand, 
Will the characteristic name selfish please stand,
"Is it true, that you believe the world revolves around you?
If so , how can a ***** even evolve around you?,
That's why in conversation ****** tolk around you, 
Because if he cant walk with ,****** will walk around you,
That's meant exactly how it sounds too,
Always jumping to conclusions without sound proof,
Know how to hit me where it hurts ,with such a profound tooth,
Then when my feelings are revealed,  you become soundproof?"
You know ******* me softly , you're well known for your silky execution,
and you like a story ,
Never been one for the hasty resolution,
And for that alone is why im seeking  Restitution,

This is it. the Jury is hung,
My mind is out of it but my heart? Its  latching on to you like the song that Sam sung,
There's been too much time lost playin victim, 
Which is why I'm here to ask that you wave this indictment,
Not gonna lie and say that there is no need for conviction,
The truth is your honor,  that SHE. SHE is my addiction ,
Not a day goes by when I don't think about her,
I never say never but I never saw me without her,
But To be Frank , its tragic what she got up in her attic, I've had it with the dramatics,
it's like her formulas quadratic,
My mind is filled with static,
I tried to hit the box for clarity,
I planned 100 different ways of asking her to marry me,
But I could never get the timing right your majesty,
Then it all fell apart , miraculous, no magically.

Delusional.
Bipolar.
Schizophrenic.
Unable to provide for the basic necessities of life.
Condemned.

I sat just outside
The decrepit courtroom,
Staring at the middle aged children;
G-d's miracles.

A soft voice startled me from below.
I saw a broken man in front of me kneeling
On the floor.

"I am Methuselah"  he whispered.
"May I wash your feet?"

I think I recognized him.
Two weeks before in the crowded courtroom
He had bared
His soul before everyone,
Yet they would not let him leave.
I remember pieces of my conversation with the bailiff,
"Can you imagine living his permanent nightmare?
Can you imagine
Believing that your parents are dead,
Mourning for so many years?
Then hearing your sister testify
That they are still alive?
And knowing . . . she is lying,
So that they can lock you up again?"


"Excuse me, sir. I saw you from across
The room; there is a holiness about you.
May I wash your feet?"

I looked into his face,
His glassy eyes, his trembling lips.
I don't know why
But at that moment he reminded me of a boy.
I wanted to help him,
To cure him, to raise him up, to help him see.
I wanted to remind him of his name.

"No thank you."  I told him.
"Please sit down."

He gingerly took the seat beside me.
"A fate has befallen me.
I do not know . . . "

He seemed to struggle for command
Of his words,
I wanted to reach out to him, to make him feel necessary.
"Methuselah is a name in the Bible. . ."
But words failed me as well.

What right did I have; who permitted me to trespass
On his life?
If I was helping him, why did I feel so guilty?

"Something holy about you  
Drew me over here.
Who are you?
Can you tell me how to find love?"

We talked together then,
About his family, his marriage, love, and G-d.
He wrote down his address as they came to take him home
Then smiled as if for the first time.
A few minutes later, lost in thought
I looked at the wrinkled
Brown paper he had torn
From his bag and read his name.

It did not say Methuselah.