so we sat there. and what i really wanted to say never came to me.
i became a writer and not a speaker, and i knew it’d come to me – and this is how it was going to come to you.
i wanted to tell you about the poetry you deserve and the man i want to be when i write to you.
i wanted to look in the mirror at you looking out of the window a little bit longer.
and i wanted to tell you about the dreams i’ve been having, especially the re-occuring one. but none of that shit came to me.
the door closing and the stairs came to me. then the door, the bed, then the pillow.
i became an extremely happy man with a melancholy disposition.
i became the poet who wrote this to you:
just one more song: for m.s.
just one more song
one more drive around the block
and this last chance to tell you everything i’ve been thinking about you
this one is about you more than the last one
because you are more than the last ones
the one who got away but didn’t go far enough
the next time you get away i’m going with you
just one more song i promise