"Like" it.

It wasn't like I woke up with the idea that today was going to be the day.

It wasn't.

I swear.

Promise.

It wasn't like I woke up and knew -

because honestly, I never even went to bed.

I've been up since before the dawn over there.

And it's past belief where you are anyway. So it could be any time here.

Any time at all.

Or no time.

I've been wandering, see,

down passages and hallways

and maybe a mind that once upon a time

wasn't as confused and as crazy as I'd like to believe.

I've got the words in me somewhere, even if they're trapped -

slightly -

by the time of day

or morning.

It's still dark out, and god damn,

god DAMN

but it's dark out.

Like the angels, I'd say.

Like my angel,

but that's making assumptions

and even though I'd want him back

I can't say what I want to

because it's in the words

I swore not to say

until the imagery goes away and lets me walk free.

It's just a little death,

but not French,

just myself, and free, the way I'm not.

I'm still chained up,

by the hour and the eyes

and I keep recalling the way it felt to be somewhere

with someone's arms,

but I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong

because whenever I remember, now

I'm looking down on the scene, like it's an out of body experience,

like I died

and get to look back

as I get bent over.

And fuck if it's not like I'm watching porn made of you and me.

Except really, I'm not looking at me.

It could be anyone.

I'm looking at you, even though you've still got all those clothes

on...

Even though your eyes aren't on me anymore.

Even though you're too far away.

Because the Mississippi is far too long,

and it feels about the sky

the same way I feel about you.

Maybe.

I can't tell if it's just obsession now, just habit

but I still know I get that twinge

like some bottom fell out of some world -

maybe even mine -

every time I see something I'd want.

And I get to be glad I didn't know about it at the time,

because it would have fucked up my world.

Not that my world's been much of perfect anyway,

and I'm tired as hell,

not to mention dead alive,

but that's something for the record books.

The way this weekend was.

And I don't know if you know what that means,

or even if you care.

Can appreciate.

"Like" on facebok doesn't begin to touch

what I'd Like to say to you sometime.

Maybe even face to face.

But the songs take the words away from me

and don't make the mistake

of thinking I don't mean them when they're part of my statuses.

It's only updates, sent by text,

but damn, if they don't all apply to you

and maybe even me.

I'd like to think I'm telling the truth

and that maybe you'll read this, one day

like I mean you to. But that's a hope that'll

fall through, won't it? It's just imagination,

some station left to rot. And I'm still too

far away to care - or not. Maybe too close to

choose to escape. (Hard when there's three

songs playing in my head.)