The Woman That Loves You

Are you haunted

by the sound of my cries?

Does it appear in mirages?

Bloody knife, wounded back,

everlasting images —

I hope it does.

And I hope that

Lorne pub is shitty,

I hope your knee gives in,

I hope her kisses

are cold and empty

like my rotting flesh.

And when you lay down

on your king-size bed,

the memory of when I was around

leaves you listless and hurts your head.

You’re my trusted one,

sharing apples, having fun.

Now I’m resentful, animosity

for you, my treasured catastrophe.

And I hope you know,

I’m just pissed off,

you’re a novel

and I’m barely a word.

And I hope you know

that I’m at my worst,

I don’t mean those curses,

except for the following;

My voice, my face

my presence, my name,

all follow you

to your doom.

I hope you hear me

in those songs, I’m singing

about a love story

or about auroras in night skies.

I hope you see me

in every eucalyptus tree,

in the passenger seat,

at the Banana Bender.

I hope you taste me

in every brownie,

in Levantine meals,

in salt water.

I hope you feel me

at your dead-end job.

I hope you smell me

in every niche cologne.

And you can drive

through every highway,

no matter where you stay,

this curse has been placed,

so you will never, ever escape

the woman that loves you.