it’s friday night
i’m at a table with a stranger
listening to a blues man sing
david bowie’s
the stars are out tonight
and i’m not here
i’m nowhere near here
i’m floating in the ether with you
thinking
i love you far too much
to ever want you to love me
but it’s too late
just know
it never works out for anyone
least of all poets
i’m a lovely curse
to those who can’t help but relive regularly
the day the car crashed
killing everyone inside
but it’s alright, baby
i’ll take it
because
you’re on the other side of town
drinking a dark beer
writing the same poem about me
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