Sometimes I have this demented fantasy that plays out in my head.
On that day, you’re running from something.
Something you finally can’t run from anymore
so you call up your friends at the police station and you grease their wallets a bit.
You get in your car and you pull the trigger,
right into the seat so that everyone can hear,
but the bullet doesn’t hit you.
You leave behind some joke-store blood and your heart is racing as you get beneath that white sheet
when the EMTs arrive.
They wheel you away and you hold your breath because the world is watching,
so you must be still.
But for the people watching this is not an act, this is real. Some of them are on their knees.
And you escape.
You get away from here and you have to stay hidden under a new name in some new place but you miss me, every day.
And maybe someday you show up at my doorstep with a bucket of lilies and tell me how sorry you are.
For the tears and the missed time.
That you were gone but you were never as far as I thought you were,
and you can explain everything if I could only just give you the chance.