Here we are arm in arm as though we know one another. But when I look in your eyes I see nothing but clouded truths and secrets I don’t think I could even guess.
We lay together side by side and I feel your fingers slip into mine. Sometimes I miss you, I want to tell you. But I don’t. I keep my lips shut tightly and I don’t think you really care either way. And sometimes I wonder if I’m ever in your mind when I’m not in your vision. Out of sight out of mind, isn’t that right?
The screen door swings behind you every time you leave and through the flashes of it I watch you walk away. I notice the way your head bows down and I imagine your eyes are on the ground. I wonder if you’re walking on a tightrope, terrified of falling down. Sometimes I want to call out to you but I’m afraid I might startle you and knock you off your feet. And I can’t lose you. So I watch you through the swinging door and ignore the ache you leave behind.
I ignore the fog and I ignore the rain and I try to see you as clearly as I can. You’re like a ghost to me in these times and you seem so far gone. I want to tell you I worry about you, but I don’t think you’d believe me. I don’t think you’d care.
When you’re gone I call out your name as if you could hear me. And when you’re gone, I think about what it would be like if you cared. I wonder if you were ever able to get out of your head long enough if you might want me, too.
And I think you take up too much space. I think you’re too big for you and for me. And I think if you let me in, you could let yourself out. Then maybe I wouldn’t see you wait in your car before coming in. Maybe I wouldn’t see you look at the tallest buildings. And maybe you wouldn’t be so close to crumbling.
And then maybe I could tell you everything resting on my tongue. And then maybe you might just feel the same.