I step away from the party [and you],
out into the cold, damp air,
I watch the raindrops darken the concrete stairs.
I see a girl, bent down on her knees
in the dirt, in the flowerbed -
as if in prayer, but vomiting instead.

Perhaps she is praying
[to whatever God she knows],
about the boy who is saying
that she needn't be scared,
and reaches out
to hold back her hair.

If I were her,
sick and drunk and damp,
illuminated by the unforgiving,
solitary yellow streetlamp,
I would want that boy
to be mine alone,
forgive me for the dirt on my knees
and take me home.

I'd wish he'd walk me to my room,
Place the wastebasket next to my bed,
tell me he hopes I'll be alright,
and not try to kiss me goodnight.

Because this time,
it's not all about the way it will end,
[not about whether you're mine.]
It's about the misting rain
in the dark amber light,
and how I hope that the girl in the dirt
has someone to love her tonight.

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