I was lying in bed, thinking of you--

That's a lie. I was sitting outside of your house,
Watching you through the kitchen window.

You woke up alone, you woke up with Shakespeare written on your body in sharpy
You thought to yourself:
This is everything that is wrong with the world.

I know these things. I know what you're thinking before you think it.
And, of course, it stands to reason
That this would cause some sort of problem, eventually.
I'm sorry. I didn't want it to end up this way.
I didn't want us to end up broken, lying at the foot of the stairs
And by "us" I mean you.

If I said that this was unfair you'd say
I was being unfair.

I remember the opera, actors dying onstage while we kissed in the front row.
Driving with the top down. I can't say I'm sorry.
I can't say much, with you watching over my shoulder. You're not supposed to know these things.

You're not supposed to know that I was preparing myself for this to end
Long before it had ever begun, long before we were anything more than an idea.
You call me fatalistic. You never considered the full meaning of your words.
There's a lot of things I didn't mean, a lot I'd take back if you gave me the chance.

I was watching the sunlight on your hair and the way it reminded me of candles in the dark,
The way you were a completely different person when I wasn't looking.
I read your diary. I'm sorry.
I drove past the train station where we said goodbye each morning.
I drove past your mother's apartment and I saw you just leaving--
I almost went over to talk to you.

I will say that this is unfair, because if you watch me, you're being careful.
If I watch you, I'm suddenly the villain, I'm the Devil in a straw hat and flower patterned sandals.

The rain hits the brick like a heartbeat, like a drummer out of time with the rest of the band.
Bitter, bitter. The shower washes the ink down the drain and the rain washes our time together into the realm of things that are best forgotten.

Here we are on the ground, sharing an apple
Here is the same picture, but you're not in it. . .

It's okay. I'd be scared, too.

home