Fantasy

Walking down King
smoking a cigarette;
listening to Elliott Smith.
The world feels so small.
It feels like I could walk to you,
like all these miles between us
don't mean a thing.
These dirty Vans,
these old Levis,
This dingy flannel that smells
like I pulled it out of the lost and
found at The Cave.
This is what the broken fighter
with tired brown eyes will look like
before you.
And maybe you can meet me halfway;
somewhere in the desert.
We'll stay at a roadside motel and I'll
buy you a whiskey.
And just as your smile materializes it shatters.
These sirens,
these god damn sirens put me
back in my place.
They pull me away.
The red hot lights burn through
my thinly lit veil.
Then the world snaps back
to it's ever growing presence
and you just get further away.
This city,
this world,
they can strip a man of hope
and make him feel alone in a crowd
of millions.
And you were right,
might as well just let go
of this fantasy.