64x

A poem about rewriting the end.

we stayed up 
all night long,
until we heard 
the bird song

and we talked
of the time,
you saw that ufo
in mexico

and you played me
all the greats:
john prine, 
jim croce
and george strait

and i introduced you
to my god:
leonard cohen

and i gave you 
all sorts of shit
for your 
silk pajama set,
the kind 
with the pinstripes
that the rich suburban 
moms wear 

and you asked me 
about my grandmother,
and it burned my eyes,
when you said 
you wished
you could’ve met her

and i wrote 
on your back
with my fingertips,
as you tried
to guess
the things
i was too scared
to say aloud

and we decided 
not to fuck 
that night,
i can’t remember 
why

and in the morning
when i left,
a lightning bolt
struck the sycamore
out back,
severed a limb,
left the nub black

we forever loved 
thunderstorms
after that

and i didn’t tell you
enough, babe

but you were
as pretty as
a train wreck,

i couldn’t 
take my eyes
off of you

everything 
you did
left me
speechless

everything
you did
gave me 
the feeling
of watching jesus
walk on water

i don’t know how 
a love like that 
can last

and you remember
how it was
towards the
beginning

mornings bled
into afternoons
like the 
blurred edges
of a rothko painting

the days evaporated
like fallen rain 
atop the hot face 
of tennessee asphalt

and sleep hurt 
the way 
a good book hurts
when you end a chapter
and turn the page

and one day i might 
turn our story
into a screenplay 

pull a hemingway

and rewrite the end 

64x

until i 
drive myself mad

until i
finally get it right.

---

P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Pink House. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.