It seems you float like a raindrop,
streaming past my vision at inconvenient times.
You burst into my poetry screaming
and smoothly slide betwixt the rhymes.
And sometimes, I really can't stand it,
how I see you in every little thing.
You're just a friend...just a best friend.
So why do I always think it's you when the telephone rings?
I sort of think I ought to put out
my troubles on a clothes line...
I'll set them in the breeze and sun
and pray they quickly dry.
It's funny, how talking to your love letters..
it makes me worry about you.
Really, it makes me worry about us. ((Youherandme))
Mostly, there's nothing I can do.
That bothers me, I must say,
that I can't push you under my bed..
I can't hide you from the dark clouds,
especially the ones that live in your head.
I'm not rightly sure if this is the poem,
it doesn't sound celebratory at all.
Maybe nine months and I'm realizing
that we all need someone to break our fall.
No, I don't think this is a poem.
It's rightly just a mess.
I have to say, you deserve better
than a clothesline strung with shirts and a dress.
It really is a problem,
can't set my issues on the line
when the tears all come thunderin' 'round
and you're always on my mind.
Honestly, you are my best friend.
And I suppose that's the best I can do.
Here is a poem, here are some words..
here are some letters assembled for you.
