you'd think it's nice the way he
wakes you up at 4am, tousled hair and
empty eyes and the palm of his hand against
your wrist.
you'd head for the horizon in
the dim light of the dawn,
full of cliches and euphemisms so that maybe
those secret tragedies can pass you by
in return for some unreachable truth
that only his music can hide.
you'd think maybe you love him love him (not)
because he tells someone else
secrets that he can't hide anyway.

those lukewarm tragedies, you'd think,
should be cold by now.