A poem about where and who we are and where and who we'd rather be
|You’re singing again, 6B,
So soft that if either of us could afford someplace sturdier than this matchbook complex,
I wouldn’t even hear the words, just
The faintest hints of melody.
I’m sitting on the floor, curled up with a mug and the want ads and
My back against the wall (pardon, our wall),
And you’re singing about promises not kept and chances never come,
And I slip away into somewhere better,
Like stepping off a ferry in Vancouver and
Feeling the change in the air, feeling that subtle something
That wasn’t there in The States- some beautiful something
Just noticeable enough to drive a guy mad smiling.
It feels like home would, if home were a better place.
It isn’t, and I know it isn’t, but it’s all I’ve got:
This place and a cup of tea and
Your voice through our wall
And the nerve (oh, what shameless nerve!),
To crumple the paper, collect the mug and
Keep pretending we know each other
More than mailbox pleasantries
I usually lie, but
I hope you don’t need to