She and Me and a Crappy Porch Couch

Me and you and a bottle of beer. Thick scent of cloves and leather and bright autumn days.

I never look at you when you can see me. Maybe I don’t want to become real. Maybe I don’t want you to become real. Be a dream, the kind that never wakes up. Silhouettes and cigarettes, a cherry flare in the dark as you take a long drag and change the subject like you always do when I’m about to say too much. 

“You ever wonder”  

I always wonder

“What if”

The world is made of ifs and buts and sentences that never get finished 

“Things were different”

Always

“If we”

Yes.

You don’t even need to finish that this and I think you know this because you just stop talking.

I let that hang in the air mixed with smoke and dreams.

I should have kissed you. I should have closed that space between us…but. There's that but, There’s always that but.

Real people disappoint. They leave. They move on.

And I wanted to feel like that forever.

You. And me. And that crappy porch couch.