She leaves you a number
to call her sometime,
waves goodbye to go downstairs,
across the street
she’ll wait for a cab.
You want to stop her
from being another one-night stand,
another number in the trash,
another reason to want more.
So on cold feet you stand
to look at her with sober eyes,
reach out to hold her
and keep her while you can.
You want to speak
but your breath is foul,
fresh from last night’s last-call drink.
Your lips too tired, cracked and worn
from all the kisses they gave
and the bites they endured—
the blondes who thrilled,
the brunettes you broke.
But now she’s walking out the door,
out the door, out your life.
And its closing time again;
last chance to make your move
and make your plea.
To take a risk,
to take her hand and change your life.
Change your heart and the loneliness
in the morning for something better,
something constant.
But change is so hard
terrifying, impossible.
And she’s gone down the stairs,
now she’s walking on the street.
And the number in your hand,
wrinkled and faded from your sweat,
will never call her back
when she steps into the cab.
photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/122/311179437_bba371a019_o.jpg
photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2350/2157097328_7c95ea1f7e_o.jpg
