That Twilight Hour

I had an idea that you were the skyline
of the the city
in the middle of June;
there I am
drifting along the overpass,
and there you are,
lost in the concrete jungles but I know
you are there.
My stomach turns.

You are the skyline, a dream
covered in a warm vintage haze
an 8mm stock film reel of smiles
the beach
rolling hills of green, and summer.
Of summer.

But if I could just open my eyes
and keep in touch with all the realities
it would be easier.
I would not fear the skyscrapers,
the familiar ceilings
the all-too-familiar feelings
and I wouldn't drown in senseless idealism.

Are you that pause in conversation?
the solitude of broad daylight,
passing images on the tv
moving pictures on the silver screen,
glances skyward
first thoughts in morning,
seven words in the middle of a song,
last thoughts in the night

Or is that someone else I've conjured with your likeness
an unrealistic mirage molded of my indecision
my anguish, my callousness,
built from separation and the hatred
of all the things that never were
But should have been.
Would have been.
But couldn't be
: is this where they have found their place?

My insides are wrenched with failure,
but I am asleep on the overpass,
with you blaring out the radio
sound-waves through the stereo
five words in the chorus
I can find you anywhere.

And so today you'll be the skyline,
in the middle of June.



*I really like this. It's one of the few things I have written where I can't think of anything to change.