You say it's your birthday next week.
Well, I'm sorry, I can't help you.
But sometimes things go wrong and we stay home.
I know I'm an asshole, smart-ass,
And I say more than what fits this room,
But I didn't mean to hurt you.
I finally stopped you and stalled,
But brought it up again.
And you started crying and I held you for a while.
Smoked Friday nights,
When the rain makes everything,
Look like mosaics and sometimes I crumble, too.
Then, it was okay to fall onto you.
Two o'clock on Saturday morning,
Take a hit and fall onto me.
You just turned fifteen.
Your eyes, they're always just so green.
Your hair falls . . . or something,
And you look at me.
I give you a smile and turn around.
I think you know and think the same,
Because I'm too uncomfortable with fire.
Lazy Saturday mornings,
When the rain makes everything,
Look like mosaics and I crumble, too.
I watch your car as it drives off.
I sit alone on the front step.
I promised you a better present.
But you're fifteen.
And I'm sorry your birthday sucked.
Being sad, stoned, and alone . . .
