There's this thing called night where normal people sleep out all the daytime left in them. I've never been normal. But there's me, and there's you, and there's the night. When the heater comes on I pull up the blinds and open the window, and watch the little twinkles up there, twinkling over both of us. Like tiny bursts of made-up words and out-of-this-world dreams, shining down, taunting and laughing and holding captive our wishes. I like to think about how we're under the same sky, even if nothing else is the same. Sometimes we're different as night and day, but night and day are the same sky, just different colors.
If I'm sad, I get a little shaky. If I ignore it long enough, I start trembling and making the desk shudder with my silence. I kind of crumple up in the chair and lose my head. I just want to hear you to talk to me, then, you know. And there are other voices in the darkness, like Ryan Adams and Jesus, but it's hard when yours is the only one I'm strong enough to hear. I am a coward. It's never easy. But I've got listen to somebody and that somebody shouldn't be me. I stopped listening to myself after I convinced myself I was in love.
It wasn't this love, if it's what you're thinking. I was thirteen. I ruined everything. All by myself. Alright, maybe the receiving end screwed me over, too. But that's not the point. The point is that I should have seen it coming. The point is that I didn't. Sometimes I think about the fact that he never made me cry. I just got nervous. And angry. Then he got angry back, and I suppose that's where it stops being my fault. That's where he chained me to my supposed sins, made me out to be this vindictive whore. I wasn't desperate like that, though. I just wanted more than I could get with patience. I told myself if I rushed out there.... I could make something mine.
But instead, I got nothing. I got pushed away and thrown around. I got quiet, and then loud, and then sad. And hopeless. Then I stopped telling myself things. And then I got you. The only thing I ever waited for. I suppose that patience was forced upon me in a way. I don't know what way, but it was, and I couldn't do anything but wait. I knew that any not-waiting-words would turn into rushing-things-thoughts and then it'd be over. So I sat awhile in that room between surprise and love, and when the door opened, I got you. No pretty bows or wrapping or anything. I probably would have thrown those away anyhow.
Sometimes, when you talk about the things that destroy you, I get all mixed up. Because in the long run, I know those things could make me lose you, and since you're the only perfect thing I've got, that would probably destroy me too. But I get this black-and-white image of you, sitting alone on some cement steps, glowing cigarette in your fingers, smoke easing its way from between your lips into the nighttime fog and stars. You're looking out at some city, but not really looking at it. Your eyes are all dimmed down as your thoughts leave your body, leave it there cold on the steps. I'm a ghost, walking up behind you, touching your shoulder, sitting down, getting tired and strangely aroused by the smoke and the silence. Your eyes would say everything to the stars, and they'd whisper it to the night, and the night would shout it back at us.