Warm Nights

You crack open a Bud Light,
and put your arm around my shoulder.
I can see your scars
white and fading fast,
as you start to snore.
The purple dark consumes us,
sitting on the porch steps
and I hear crickets filling our silence.

Maybe next month,
we’ll realize we’ll never get anywhere
if we spend our days in this pillowed net
kissing under the moon.
You’ll storm out the door,
drunk with rage,
and I’ll stand there next to the counter
stunned.

Maybe in a few years,
I’ll find a suitable man
just like I’m supposed to
and don’t think twice,
because I’ve been cut too many times
to think about a bandage.
We’ll coast along,
my new husband and I,
maybe have a child or two,
but I won’t be content.

Maybe in a few years,
you’ll find a condo in Queens
and sleep around with models
and maybe later find higher ground with
Anna or Stephanie.
You’ll get married maybe,
Have a son perhaps,
but you won’t be happy.

Maybe one warm night,
you’ll be reminded of
the darkness we sat in not long ago
and the emptiness will get to you.
You’ll throw yourself into the Sedona
and drive across empty roads
under the blank moonlight.

You’ll knock on the door
and I’ll hear it, lying awake in bed.
Our eyes would meet
and I’ll remember them.
I’ll remember the nights we shared,
clinging onto each other as loneliness
passes by our house.

And I’ll slam the door on you.

Author's Note

listening to Lana Del Rey again