The Felon

If the felon

was any more clueless

she’d never know to leave.

And if the felon

was any more grounded

she’d see the mean

in me.

I’m never there when she wants me,

no,

because I can’t stay

in the same place long.

I don’t listen to her pretty mouth,

no.

Her stories are my

background song,

loved only when they are gone.

She’s a midnight friend,

see,

and I’m the fairweather type

and there is

almost never

fair weather at midnight.

Yet,

she is the fair weather,

impossible

to dim

or avoid.

I am the blackness of midnight

darkening her days

but she tells me

she loves me

anyway.

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