I got the message last night,
words and punctuation,
a side-arm volley from the flank
that caught me in the crossfire.
Steadied my shaking hands,
despite the complication
of way too many amphetamines
and a medicated head.
It's been two weeks out on the front,
it's a bad situation:
too little sleep, too little peace,
and too many friends long gone away.
I shouldered my rifle
and prepared for evacuation.
I left the note behind in wax,
and left the words to burn.
[It said:]
"This is not a warning,
this is not a distress call,
but my ship is in the harbor now,
and I'm sailing out from shore.
Don't blame the ocean,
don't blame anything at all.
Don't blame yourself or blame the fight
that's kept us far apart.
I'm the captain of my vessel,
and I'm tearing down this wall
of distance and doubt between us,
until you see what I know now.
You're drifting out at sea,
and I'm waiting for the fall.
If you return, you'll find me gone for good,
so I leave you my heart
at the bottom
of the ocean,
for you to keep behind your eyes.
And remember, if you should return,
the love you left behind."
We stormed the bunker last night.
I fought for my decisions.
I didn't lose sight of her,
and kept my love in mind.
I was caught in the crossfire,
my blood leaves with my convictions.
And the words I speak under fire and smoke
will echo in our eyes:
"We are the living,
we are the dead who don't know why.
We are the favored sons and daughters who
ever learned to try."