standing on the dry weeds

standing on the dry weeds in the shallow front yard and telling me of your plans to move to another city while i watch the skyline of this city over your shoulders half lit and being washed sideways by the sun. i say you shouldn't go and you don't acknowledge my words but you smile because we both know i am not the one to be saying that and if i want to be the one to be saying that then i have to weigh me versus them and i am so light already, giddy, confused not in desire but with what follows. how many secret nights can i carry when one may be too many but none is not enough if the wrong is in our thoughts instead of in our actions then there is a calendar of indiscretion i have already filled you leave, walking in the middle of the street, i am shaking my head and i keep shaking my head as i go into the house because i need every no to stop me from following.