You're Supposed To Have A Cynical Brother

Maybe when I'm older I can capture
your love in a poem. And you can
capture mine in only one line.
And I'll say, "Baby, don't worry, we're
bigger than this." And you won't believe
a word of it. 'Cause we looked like
homemade curtains. Too tight and
together to do much hurting. But this
was never a relationship that I
didn't want to end, but rather
a relationship that I wanted too badly
to begin.
And maybe in my suicide note I'll
write that you weren't just a
goal. That you were more. But I don't
think you were. At least not anymore.
The kid with the strawberry blonde hair and hunched
shoulders is the one I'll talk to next.
He'll be the only one aware of
what I really set out to do. And maybe
he'll write a song about it, like you
never wanted to. I can say I'm sorry
that a broken analogy won't save me
tomorrow. But who will I apologize to
like a coward? Like the pussy that I
am, afraid to ask you myself. Now the
kid with cheekbones and the smell of
not-trying is the only one that can
help. I tell him, "as you were," and
he returns, but I've ruined him past
the boiling point. And our hearts are
about to freeze over. And they'll melt,
and we'll all the sudden be older,
and maybe then I can capture you
in a photograph. Or on a walkman
with yout awkward laugh.
But the kid with short strawberry
hair, promised me the world.
And though he's never even met me,
I can see it in his stares.
Whenever he looks at you,
it's through me. And always will be.
We'll both love you from a distance.
While secretly loving each other.
We'll talk about the way you brush
the hair out of your face,
(without using your hands)
like you're invisible or undercover.
And we wanna know exactly your
sweet taste,
but first we need one another.
And darling, the game that you and
I play, is a love to lose kind of thing.
But really it's just an accident.
Brought on my analogies and precedents.
And if I can tell you any secret now,
any wish at all
It'd be that all my wishes are secrets now,
and that's gotta be all my fault.
I can't talk to too many people.
Just an elite, select few.
Well, actually just one,
the skinny kid with the pale bruise.
When we're together, we share our
love for you. And his hair in the
morning is mussed and alone. He talks
to his mother on his friend's cell phone.
Oh, she wants him out, why isn't he at
school? 'Cause the morning looked so
sullen, and it needed an enemy. "Anyway
it's just a way to kill time, to me."
I ask him if he wishes we were
beautiful. He replies, "I probably never
will." And the unsureness of the meaning
makes me say, "Only time will tell."
At night, he stares at the ceiling,
he hears his mother slam the door.
He describes you in some poetic way,
before she screams at him some more.
"There's something there," you used
to tell me.
But this kid knows there never was.
Maybe it's 'cause I'm feeling sentimental
at the moment,
but I wanna tell him he's the only one I trust.
He wants to make you love him,
like the morning needs a friend.
Like my memory that feels too light,
and my dream that never ends.
"It's fake," he tells me silently, "You're
making it up as you go, in your head."
You don't know if you can love him,
but I know you can.
And what if when I marry you,
he is your best man?
No, that would get him too nervous,
too hard for him to understand.
I am anything but against him,
I mean, it's he and I against the world,
just remember it's a memory,
and it's fake, he assures.
Every time the record makes a 360,
I feel even more dizzy.
It is not just me that goes in circles.
But he whispers that once we fall, we'll be whole.
Now I don't believe everything he says,
after all, he's a kid worth 90 pounds
and a youthful head.
But it's hard not to smile when he tries
to be heard,
over the radiator and refrigerator.
He'd savor every word spoken, from any one person
on his most precious record label.
He doesn't know if he'll be successful,
does he remind you of yourself?
I wake by him every morning,
looking in the mirror, with no sense of smell.
And by then the scent has gone,
from his friend's thin flannel shirt,
so he puts on some old brown tennis shoes,
and doesn't try
not to lose.
I swear he wonders in his sleep,
and falls there in his clothes,
lies inside a trance, with who
God only knows.
You were the one to always ask, "What if?"
But he thinks everything already fits.
You always knew that it was all a puzzle.
But he's content under the star's blue covers.
For him it is a window,
while for you it is a door.
How far away he knows you are,
but he loves you even more.
He says you were the only present he
ever got,
and it wasn't even intentional.
It's the exact same way with me,
there's only one exception.
You gave yourself to me,
without even knowing how.
Under the thick fog made by microscopic
heart fires,
do you see now?

Special Note: Sorry, I couldn't stop writing.