I like you that much


There’s a lone spot of dry on the sidewalk when I walk home
that lets me know that it’s still okay to be alone.
I know that I can throw out two spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream,
’cause I got me a whole pint on my way home that screams for me.

How easy it is to forget
for get.
To keep swirling in a muddy puddle of,
“I got that ConEd bill to pay before the
terrorists come get me and if I don’t finish
that fat report by tomorrow my boss is gonna
kick my bad-ass to high heaven which reminds me
that I have to do yoga right before my date that isn’t
even really a date on Friday night and jeeeez I hope he
doesn’t cancel because I got this red pedicure just for him
because I like him that much.”

What happened to
I like me that much?
What happened to
I like you that much?

I like you,
this person that I met out on the street,
this person that I shared stories of addiction
and the cowardly nature of suicide with.
Now that we’ve shared three words or more
there’s no way I could draw my double-edged sword
to your heart, because I know now
that I live in there, too.

Rita lost her kid brother in the towers,
and she told me tonight that after these past two years,
an ordinary time is wonderful.

Who are we
to disagree?


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