Who ever sang to you was lying
We weren't meant to love like music.

I don't think I've ever loved anyone
like a love song or a c-chord
wedged in the middle of a progression
like an unfulfilled obligation

-- believe me darlings
my sweet peas, my Brussels sprouts,
my mandolins--
I've tried to write songs
for all of you.

I harmonize Splenda packets on strawberries--
voice cracks like a c-chord
on the side of a mixing bowl--
I've lied with other people's
words, darlin, mandolin-- 
I'll snap my fingers like a D-string
and a thumb.

we aren't really  like that, sweet pea.
my midnight mashed-potato lover
we don't measure into  yellow packets
on any Tuesday-- 
I won't package you shut like separate sides 
of bunk beds we learn to sleep on. 
Take your blankets and I'll take 
mine.

I've tried to teach my throat 
to be a trumpet-- but I quit trumpet
in the fifth grade and 
now I can only play "taps" 

these lips can't bite into a chorus--
and my verses are the worn
away heels of our favorite socks--
the ones we don't throw out even
though we know we should.

chorus, chorus, 
"love me like forever"
"love me like a chorus"

I don't want to repeat this thing
tomorrow-- we can make
tomorrow tomorrow and today
today and next Tuesday 
a trumpet if we can remember

chorus, chorus, kick-line-base drums to the next
time I say goodbye like there was a plane
waiting for you at the end of my driveway
instead of a bus stop--

don't leave me with
my own wrists-- 
they scare me and hang me--
like string bass necks

If you stay
I won't lie to you with a love song
I won't write you a poem today like I could
put us in a Splenda packet or sleeping
bag or a c-chord

Don't hear me wrong
My darling, my sweet pea
my mandolin, my naked strawberries 
I don't mean that you don't make
me sing like the trumpets I can't play--
I just mean that it's not really
a song.