Taken separately from everything
it's really just this:
a lingering note from a violin,
the violent strains of closing time:
the quiet before the dawn.
It's about that cup of coffee,
and your tongue inside my mouth:
how you looked in that tight black shirt,
or drunk in the winter night.
It's just you
without heartbreak, endings
goodbyes or good sense calling,
how it went and how it started,
him in the middle, or how
was extraneous to how I felt.
It was the way I knew I knew you,
and how unreliable you were.
Stumbling graceful, broken-hearted loser,
curve of hips in striped black trousers,
cursing in the midnight hours,
and the dying of the light.
It's a song about you