It's Late & I Just Want Spaghetti and the Crickets to Shut the Hell Up

The crickets here never take a breath

A constant ticking and chirping

An accompaniment to the dogs that chase

The cats that scowl

The humanity outside the door

That is filled with the dust of life

Humidity hangs lower than their chors*

Home swirls in my mind as I build it

Grief lingers as I continually let go of the past

A nightmarish dream that chases and clutches my wrists as I scream in its face over and over again

Where I wake up to crickets that never cease

And dogs that keep fucking (so damn loud)

I keep wondering if my dog understands what they bark at him

And if I'll ever feel like I fit in anywhere in my lifeline

Or if I'm always meant to sneeze my own tune and pretend to play the piano

When in reality, I can barely keep a beat on the drum

I wonder if my heartbeat is irregular too

Yet when I press my cheek to my wife's skin

I hear her irregular tune and think

"Yeah, that makes sense that this is home"

But she's asleep now

And I just want to make spaghetti for the second late-night in a row

I wonder what stops us from doing what we want

Conformity I suppose

Though I won't forget the one time she and I made full-on spaghetti at midnight, and it was the bomb

Maybe I'll give the middle finger to conformity tomorrow

Maybe I'll keep her up longer than the damn crickets.

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*chors - shorts