I don't know what to say to you. So I write.
I think I’m folding over, here, and somehow my head is still balanced on my shoulders with all those heavy thoughts inside it. I’m sure I’m folding down, crumbling like the buildings of ancient civilizations that just couldn’t take the never-ending pressure of time and all that it brings.
You could take my hand in a moment or two, and maybe if I felt the touch I’d thank you for it. But you won’t.
Both of us know at least that.
Still, knowledge of the kind of truth that kills apparently is not an equalizer in your book. Apparently, there are no equalizers. And obviously, such concepts are as fictitious and ghostly transparent as your God. My dear… for this, I pray for you.
Your in-bed-supermodel hair, eyes with luster that would make a mad scientist sane for the purpose of studying them soberly, do you understand me? Walking through your midlife crisis a lifetime too early to get it out of the way and shunning yellow M&Ms for superstition, it appears that you do. My world is a witch hunt without Salem and it’s all about the people who smile with the sunrise and can slide down a rainbow, not once contemplating the gold.
I’m standing here in front of traffic and I’ve got two options in life. I can go back to the side of the street I came from or you can hold out your hand on the other side and ask me to continue crossing. I can see the red-green of stoplights, smell the exhaust from the passing cars, feel the world pressed against my cheeks…trying to get in my head and not fitting. I can hear the wind slipping through the cornfields out past the city where you’d take me if it were possible. If I stay here, my dear angel, not even you can stop the cars from ending it. I’ve gotta move, move, move…and help me.
I can see a steeple from my bedroom window and I don’t think it’s some godforsaken coincidence that it happened that way. That steeple glows in the light of a single streetlight every night and it watches me as I trust it enough to shut my eyes in its presence. The night that the streetlight blows a fuse is the night that you ask me to dance with you, and I’m entirely ready for it.
By the way I think I love you and I’m sure you know it changes things.
Your heart came with a flashlight, honey, you know where to find me. Pick yourself up and come on over because I really need to hold you. I think I know how to tell you what I feel now. But it only works if you’re listening.