8-11-16
I'll always pick up for you,
You're some religion to me.
Im being told you're in love with me,
But you're worried about what he's
Telling you about him and I.
Only if youd drop him from
Your vocabulary,
Because im so willing to do
The same.
You have no idea,
You really have no idea.
You're taking my voice
Like it's a drug,
You can hardly go a day
Without it, and I like that.
Meanwhile he's tripping
On my voicemail.
Tell me the voices saying
You love me are right.
I don't want your body
Home, not if I'm not
There anymore. Won't
You listen to me?
This is possible.
Drive, chase the pavement
Until you find me.
I know you only have
Two seconds, you're
Outside, quietly whispering
In some corner, because
Although we're all friends
Here, you don't want any
Trouble. Funny that
You're nothing but trouble,
Yet with her, you want a break
From that. I know
The things she doesn't,
Was that alcohol or trust
Talking when you spilled?
Maybe both.
I'm being told you're in love with me.
And oh god, let me believe it.
There are trains coming
From the west and the East
North and South,
They're all bound to meet.
They're all bound to me.
I'm being told you're in love with me.
But your body isn't here,
I'm devoid of emotion,
and walking in circles
Around unfamiliar blocks.
(None of the sidewalks
Will lead me to you sitting
Next to the railroad tracks)
Im being told you're in love with me,
Why am I being told you're in love with me?
Candles smell something like you,
Just like my pillows do when I
Soak them in cologne,
Not even your cologne, but
I'll make do with what I have.
I'm being told you're in love with me,
It's not just me in my head.
Right?
Just say it.

I used to think you were
Dangerous but I looked
At my hands, at my shoes,
And what they've seen,
And it kind of made sense.
I hate to do this.
Because I miss you more
than I'm allowed to love you
When all of this should feel wrong.

I stop to watch the lights on
the trains, i should be asleep
I should be asleep I should
Be asleep. The wind is
Tangling like your fingers through
My hair. And maybe this is
The last poem I'll write for you.
- (m.m)