the last nights

I wanted him to pick me up by the arm from where I sat in the middle of the street. I wanted him to look at me like I was crazy with a fury in his eyes while I stared back blankly taking in every aspect of his face. I wanted him to tell me how dangerous sitting here was and how it may be quiet but high gang bangers come soaring down this street and they would hit me so quick and never stop to check me after. I was screaming for attention. Maybe it was true, maybe I was looking for a father figure. I didn’t go sit on the cold asphalt Indian style in the outskirts of his beautiful ghetto, instead I waited in the car listening to my Paul Simon and making modeling faces in the rear view mirror. My non-smile is too sad, I may not have the eyes for this as Paul says, “ he can’t leave his fears behind…phantom figures in the dust.” I start to recall my own fears and land on how fear is really my biggest fear. Stupid. As I write fear overcomes me and my mind wonders to bigger eerie fears… he’s here and i'm not on the street.