why does it matter to me what you do.
why do i care where your state turns, or how,
why does it bother me to picture your face
construed, sweaty with eyes rolled; laughing out of control,
your mind in another world, a funhouse maybe:
i am in the black of your eye,
a room of mirrors filled with versions of you
and a new one, i don’t know or care too much for;
the one i don’t understand, that one from another world
i’ve never been to. a place my passport
won’t work for. you wanted to take me there
but i said no. i don’t belong there.
my place is here, where the water and skies are clear,
except when it rains and if it rains
it makes the uncertain certain
and the unbalanced balanced and the dim
enlightened.