The End
The End
The record skipped The End
of Abbey Road again.
I have forgotten what it should sound like
and how I ever fell asleep before you.
I can't help but feel as if I am missing something
when I climb out of bed each morning
to make a coffee that evidently
will not make itself.
I go, and I imagine you
and Zoe, maybe,
in a small cafe the length of
In a Station of the Metro.
I wont bother the rest. Your hands
take pages to tell.
And think about all the hours
that goddamn play was rehearsed!
Two lines in, my coffee is cold,
and in the end, Montreal is a great place to be miserable.
I've only now looked up
and realized it's raining.
I love my city right after it rains, just
not yours. Your sun is beautiful.
You'd think now maybe I'd finally get some sleep
because at least I know you have someone sleeping next to you.
I can't imagine a sun that could singularly
warm a double bed, or a creamer,
for that matter, that doesn't curdle in coffee.
