broken cameras and jackhammers

you and i are both confused romantics and bumbling writers,
like my old broken camera; surrounded by beauty but unable to record.
and maybe you're working late or maybe you're drinking early at home
and maybe i don't care anymore.
if we ever meet again i'll tell you why i left on that motorcycle that day
while you stood crying on the curb; because commitment was too cold
and Pittsburgh, too dead; and no one trades coffee for a cigarette,
and maybe you'll understand.
if you choose to reply i hope to hear that you found your way;
and graduated between binges; and even that you've finished something better.
i want to know that you've lived and felt and searched and found a clean, well lighted place.
and maybe you have.
and i'll tell you about my dreamand the old woman with chandelier teeth and you'll laugh.
and maybe we'll never be nineteen again; two jackhammers pounding for knowledge,
but you'll always be the hatchet that splintered my old facade and the first small mirror
that showed me what i could be and what i never was;
and you'll always be the one who ruined Wham.
and maybe i was wrong.
as you walk away i'll say thank you; for reminding me to feel and helping me to remember.
and maybe you've packed the hookah or maybe grabbed coffee at the Beehive.
but i hope you find something to believe in and someone to hold your hand.
and maybe so will i.