come inShe is a rain-soakedneon sign at eight o’clockon a Thursday night.Her light is too cold,pipes twisted, full of fluid,I’m open, she says.The door is always openIsn’t that what I’m here for?Isn’t that my job?Hollow, dim, dull,there’s not much else she can do.Come in here, she says.At 1AM ona Sunday, she’s still open.Chemicals buzzing.
UnallowedI'm flattered but the emotion is getting to me.You speak, but I can no longer listenTo anything you're sayingbetween crossed fingersand eyes gazing down. I don't believe you.I'm sorry but the pain is becoming too much.Now we are something bigger than the two of us,Holding on to the instability while trying to stand--Partaking in what can only be insanity.Stop there. You're getting too close.You know it's not fair. Suddenly I'm slipping,With your arms conveniently open,Whispering to me if I get too scared.In the darkness, I see your eyes.Constantly loomingalways watching.Each step has to be carefully laidFor traps have been set near the places I stand.Please go. You've outlived your welcome in my forgiveness.Basking in a worn out tenderness--It was never yours to begin with.May your next words be Goodbye or I don't want to hear it.Excuses. Again, I am hearing.Tired of leaning on what little hope I manageTo grow. Leave now. Your presence is s