Knock so I'll know you're still there, half listening, interpreting
the air. Full of failing foreign tongue, my dialect of stammer
come undone. I've got these threads of you and I that I use
to tie my doubts down, and from four times-zones away, still
yesterday, still talking to the past: from the front seat of your
car, gravel road and falling, falling hands and falling star.
Start the engine up. I'd like a new identity. A pseudonym.
Some plastic surgery. Or just a way to disappear. Someone
to write me out of here. I hear you hum an unfamiliar song.
Thought maybe you would come along. Perhaps you'd like to
see some piece of this; my new philosophy is that a crappy
tape deck somewhere plays a greatest hits collection of
strange and tender moments, lost, stranded, and forgotten.
I'll meet you there. (Something I forgot to say: can't find a
way to make this mark more clear. So crack your skull
before you weep, and I'll try to keep some part of me
sincere.)