Wake Me Up When You Want to Say Goodbye
Wake Me Up When You Want to Say Goodbye
I did try my best to write you poems,
alas, you never read them.
When I live my life alone
would you meet me once a week?
I imagine our lives would be like this:
You wake up from an absurd dream, yet it fades as soon as you open your eyes. Those eyes catch something bright near the room’s door. I opened it two hours ago, so you know you’re not alone. You walk through the door and find me at my desk, writing something on my laptop, my back facing you, which brings a smile to your face. It makes you remember our fight a week ago about who has a broader back between us. I said of course it’s you and you teasingly said that my back is wider than the front door in our house. It saddens me because I want to be smaller and weaker than you. Unaware of this, you think our fight was cute. You said, good morning. I turn my head without a smile. You’ve interrupted me in the middle of writing some crucial scenes. You also never understand, never aware, the signs of my agitation, the anger that slowly builds a gap between us. You ignored my plain face, tapped my head, and went to the kitchen to make a coffee for yourself. Without even asking what I was writing about, you began to talk about your plan to get through the day. You’ll probably continue your work (an article about the importance of stoic thinking in this modern world). You’ll walk outside to search for some inspiration (you want to write about animals now, especially birds), you also want to make dinner for tonight (a tomato omelet with fried chicken), then maybe if you’re not sleepy, you want to read my work. I didn’t respond because you don’t need it. For you, the silence coming from my mouth is better than my complaint about your thoughts. But even when you finished your coffee, you just sat on the sofa, watching the world outside through the window, and when you knew your mouth hadn’t moved for a long time, you asked what I was doing. You know what I’m doing, I’m writing. I sat in front of you, working on some imaginary characters I don’t care about in a fictional place I never went to, making them suffer as much as I could write, hoping this would make a good story. You’re too lazy and dependent on imagination, you said. People would know that everything you write is just some kind of cheaper reality. Their lives are probably more interesting than your story. We should do another job, something more … real. Both of us can still be teachers, and we can pretend we’re more knowledgeable and have more experience than our students, you added with a smile. Do you remember the first time we met? When you asked that question, I stood, brought my laptop to you, sat beside you, leaning my head on your shoulder, and told you to go on, tell me again about the first time we met. You started with the coincidences: you read an article about butterflies, then a butterfly flew in front of you, you walked out from your building with a solid visual in your head about something red, and then you saw a small banner on the side of the road, it was red. On that banner was information about my first book, that I would do a talk show in a library near your place. I interrupted, do you think if it were to happen today, you would see that information on social media? You shake your head. The thing is, it’s not happening today. And maybe you didn’t like my interruption, or you were just tired. You said you want to walk outside to search for some inspiration. Then, I told you, a bit loud so you won’t forget, I’ll go to sleep, wake me up when you want to say goodbye. It sounds like a song, you said. Yeah, that song, we used to like that song, I added. You asked, Why don’t we like it now? Because you left, I said quietly, hopingly, teasingly.
I Should Marry Dane DeHaan
Damn, you make it clear that you don’t like me,
smiling like a clown just for being polite
and I know you can’t wait to say see you tomorrow
so you have a reason to leave without feeling guilty.
I said this to you more than five times,
you look like Dane DeHaan
but you’re not bothered enough to know who he is or what he looks like,
you just agree with that.
You do look like Dane DeHaan, I saw him in that movie where he has some power and he uses it to hurt other people because he got hurt. In that movie, his name is James. It sounds like your name. Do you think it’s a coincidence?
Dane DeHaan got married, having more than one child, as I can remember, but I feel like I should marry him instead. Why did I meet you, the person who looks like Dane DeHaan but not Dane himself?
It’s infuriating how you don’t know how much I sacrifice for you,
I’m acting dumb every time you mansplain something and ask stupid questions so you can feel more assertive about your knowledge, and you can teach me something I don’t know. Tell me, haven’t you ever watched Kill Your Darlings? Dane DeHaan is in there. He is exactly like you when you talk about something you know and get a degree in that.
Here’s my theory:
I can be in heaven; you’re in the desert.
I’ll run from heaven, barefoot, to come to you even when you don’t call my name.
I’ll eat the apple, I’ll endure the punishment, to get to you.
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Yet, in the desert, you already had a plan to bury yourself.
I can say fuck you or screw you to Dane DeHaan, but if it’s you, my mouth is melting.
That means something, right?
You Think It’s About You
Yet, you don’t contact me,
you imagine I would do that,
I would chase and reach up first
but, babe, aren’t we the same creature?
Yet, you still learn how to act not to give a fuck
your heart beating, your head exploded
for some regret and what-if situations
you still imagine, I follow your script
say what you want me to say,
and you forgot I have my own script.
Yet, you think again, probably it’s not you
there are plenty of people that I associate with,
it’s not just you,
but maybe, you think, it’s you.
Yet, you’re not brave enough to tell me that
you think it’s not too important
whatever, just a fucking girl.
and you dream about me,
the dream I sent to you
the signs the universe gave you,
I whispered to them, to look after you
and to not drown in silence.
