It’s a dangerous time of night, and I’m in a dangerous mood.
opening doors better left shut, picking scabs
off old wounds, writing letters I know better than to send.
I nearly wrote one of them here, but caution
(or convention) tells me not to rock the boat,
and so CRTL-A-Del has done its work. No fear —
I’ll swallow the confusion one more time
(ignore that even after all these years, it stings
going down), and I’ll be good.
No unpleasant scenes, I promise. I’ll not ask
you to remember why you hated me,
or worse, to know if you still do.
I’ll be good.
But still that rebel murmur in my ear
wonders what could have been, what still could be.
How much water flows beneath a bridge in seven years?
Love trumps pride, and here’s the thing:
I miss my friend.