You and I
always hurt at the same time.
God doesn't do that
by a random mistake.
I had to get away,
and when I called,
you were home crying.
"Come with me, girl"...
I drove to you
and we drank kahlua
on your piano bench,
both avoiding each others eyes
as we talked about our hurts,
then looking in each others eyes
as we shared sarcastic laughter.
You said you would
go home and call your kids,
then have another kahlua,
perhaps a hot bath.
I said I would go home,
take two or three
sleeping pills,
whatever it took
to put me out.
We drove to the bookstore,
the perfect length of time
to vent about our lives and
console one another.
I dropped you off at home
and was able to face
the demons in the night
once more...
thanks to the
ever-present
synchronicity
of our heartbreaks.