When you screamed that your hate
overcame you, destroyed you, ate at you
because of me, I didn't believe you.
Cause you'd take my hand
when we walked on the beach,
feather finger tip brushes on my knuckles
and the world was so right.
Now it's on a tilt like those full moon nights
in the back seat of your car,
on the edge of the highest cliff,
metaphorically and literally
and you'd make me fall with my wings
so wide, so free, and only beautiful in your eyes.
It could have been the perfect picture of domesticity
sharing cheap wine on our back porch
while the kids played and the sun went down
if only we had been on the same page,
if only we had been the same age,
if only we had been more grown-up.
But it didn't matter back then,
when we went to sleep surrounded in body heat
and limbs tired from committing sins
and swimming in oceans of passion,
and watching this crash wave-like on the rocks.
Maybe we'd still be in Mississippi now
down in the warm wonderful south
if we hadn't drank so much
and if we'd talked more than we danced,
instead of north where everything freezes cold as ice
and we wouldn't be wrapped up in
cold weather jackets just to keep warm
our breath and our words chilly and visible.
A goodbye was never right with you.
If only we'd been Christain, or conservative,
if only we'd been normal or sober,
if only we'd realized that it was shattering.