If I could ask you a thousand ways,
a thousand times,
a thousand days,
I would.
But someday I’ll have to decide myself
what to be.
Yeah, I would a time or two
write a line or two,
drive a mile or two,
just to get away from you
and taste that Missouri skyline,
smell the crackle of silent phone lies,
for one more last try
at making it.
Not together-apart,
not torn-away.
But don’t tear apart
from “the way things have to be”
between you and me
because it seems okay
from a certain point of view—
there’s the part about me
afraid to try,
and the part about you
believing too much in
me
wanting to feel important
in this world.
They say it takes a worried man
to write a worried poem,
and I’ve got issues
like I’'ll miss you,
but there are some things
even a worried man has to try.
And I hope there will still be time,
the greatest and last asset
of the greatest of fools,
to decide.

07/18/2003

Posted on 07/18/2003
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