it's december thirteenth, late,
three shooting stars and smoke break,
two two two it says on our door,
short grass i've never seen before.
our magnolia trees sit high above,
the moon shines bright on them.
glowing bits of leaves-
like fireflies watching me.
alone, not lonely.
no. 'lonely lonely that is me' she says,
and i repeat.
three three three.
i wish on the third-for four; one more.
and on the first two, wonderful things for
him and me. treats; to flee. fame, friends.
a wish to bring me home again. to blend,
a trend. notebook, paper, pen. a stage;
reclaim. passions, love, healthy worries,
and each time i turn away, a chance i missed another one.
and each time we go there, we can't be here.
and each time you're with this person, you can't be with that one.
each time you're in LA, you can't be in paris.
and each time you're happy, you can't be sad.
and each time you yell, it's impossible to whisper.
or sing, or be silent.
each time you leave, you'll miss somewhere else.
and each time you despise, you can't possibly adore.
two two two, the number on our door.
each time you write, you can't own that loathsome block.
shaking, a breeze, tobacco, speed, rock.
orion, the ink splattered sky.
one two three, is all that the sky tonight
would give to me. one two three four.
four. of course there were four.
but fourth was never seen by she.
i think of those who have it worse than me.