I'm an ink blot, an out-of-tune piano jarring C-sharp. Dog-earring the pages of your book, I spill coffee on your IKEA armchair. I'm a ballerina tripping over Converse. When I talk, it is always too loud. I stutter. My fingers grease your car window. That night, I squabbled Beatles lyrics in the radiator mist:
Day After day, alone on the hill
the man with the foolish grin
is keeping perfectly still
It was your favorite album until I scratched it. You told me a million times not to clean your records, that you would take care of it, but that didn't stop me from scrubbing the vinyl with steel wool. Now, the song buzzes and skips. Paul McCartney sings with a stutter; his blackbird is an angry cockatoo. I wanted to buy you a new record, but gave the money to a man with a styrofoam cup instead.
The night you turned twenty-three, I was climbing a mountain of Brillo boxes. I didn't know it was your birthday, or that you were alone. When I found out, I started to draw you a picture, but stopped when The Simpsons came on.
I never finish anything. My canvases are half-painted, stories half-written. Half-empty glasses litter my bedroom, waiting to be spilled.
I don't apologize for missing your birthday, or offer to wipe the window of your car. Instead, I give you half a yellow moon. Shoelaces untied, I race you to the top of the hill, pointing as I stutter "s-s-sky!"
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill,
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning 'round