I'm counting out dollars while I limp to your brownstone.
I can just barely cover what I need to get back home.
And I know we're allowed indiscretion in our lives,
but I've been making mine count every night for a while.
I keep deleting your number and name from my cell phone,
but I call every day; that's as far as my act goes.
What you have helps me turn down the noise that I make,
but when it stops it just pokes me and keeps me awake.
My friends always warned about living cliches
but my friends aren't there when I meet you these days.
I count people and street signs from the back of your car
and then skip back excited to wherever they are.
I take risks in the stall while they talk by the bar.
I won't go back outside 'til my memory starts
erasing itself into something less brutal,
some beautiful bullshit I pretend to belong to.
For as long as the trush tucks itself into bed,
and the beat of my heart and the heat of my breath
keep me hopeful and distant and proud of myself,
I'll keep ringing your bell every night around twelve.
