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.)

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