Searchlights

I could lay here in the grass another 10 minutes,

brambles and weeds tangled in my hair.

What's out of place and which ones are the dead ends?

Are these shooting stars or more helicopters?

Their searchlights looking between the spirals of my old notebook,

Searching for some line about how worn out my spine has been.

If only pilots could see my ambitions hidden under pencil shavings,

The ink like my confidence often drys up soon after the words come out.

Are the stars easier to reach then you were?

The last time I tried I was unsuccessful.

I reached for your ripped sweater

came back with nothing but crescent moon indents on

the insides of my hands

from my uneven finger nails.

Where do you go when your porch is filled with strangers?

You don't remember my name?

Oh. I don't remember yours either...

And I was too wasted when you said you liked my shirt too..

These new acquaintances never go to the next step.

Searchlights looking through the weeds and rusty monkey bars,

for the place I go when anxiety turns into paranoia.

Does anyone have my back besides these centipedes.