you are water and rock,
ink and oilstain,
the bending of trees,
all that noise on the street;
that one dam-shattering sound.
you are a muted city in self-contemplation,
the woman dancing with her children,
an addiction, all alone.
you are a spring coma losing its grip,
dreaming of the phoenix,
looking to be reborn.
you are glued to a screen
seeking a magical weapon.
you are wearing headphones,
lost in your Jeff Buckley collection.
you are always praying.
you are that weird cashier in Dallas who killed a man in Houston
and never loses at poker.
you view tea as religion.
you are the nine-hour layover in Atlanta telling your life story in
the smoking lounge.
you are the mobile pharmacist in the park,
the man chasing sirens at sea,
the guy who remembers his mother's birthday.
you are the manipulative girlfriend who needs more attention,
the goddess of awesome vinyl,
the crazy whore who breaks beds and hearts,
the Nina Simone fan that sings in the dark.
you, the lousy painter,
you, making the world's greatest meatloaf,
you, the next big thing.
you who are grateful,
who are born dead,
you who have no idea what the hell is going on,
you who forgive and are forgiven.
you that nobody wants,
you who wants everyone,
you, my love.