Counting Streetlamps

It's three in the morning and my feet are on the dash of the passenger side. Through the parking lot the headlights bore and glow and fade. My hand on my forehead and I try to remember all of the things I said to you today and what they might mean and what they might mean later. I think I have relied too much on subtletey and I think I underestimate you and I think I'm an over-indulgent piece of shit and I think I'm over-thinking.

The car backs out and the headlights glide over the cars near and into the dark and into the end of the night. It moves and I move with it. I'm drunk. Focused only on the memory of watching you walk away. Watching you leave.

I wonder;

How many have thought of you like I do?

The rhythm of your name?

The syllables and how they dance and sway?

The relief of my fingers on your skin and your breath on my neck.

Thought "her"?

Been me?

My feet on the dashboard and out of the parking lot. The hood of my sweatshirt tight around my head. The sunglasses ridiculous on my face. The beer in my hand. The absence and you can't understand. Maybe it's the absence of me. Maybe it's less than I believe. Maybe.

I don't think that's true

and I don't think you do either.

I drink the beer and as the streetlamps pass I count them and I want to stop for food but I don't speak up because when I take off my shirt I want you to think more of me than I am.

Though it would be nice to be distracted for a minute.

Count the streetlamps. The syllables.

My feet on the dashboard and why haven't I quit yet? I'm not sure I have an answer anymore.



It would be nice.