And You Wanted to Be Like Him

You wanted to be like him. You wanted all the earth's oysters for yourself. To guard and protect, to watch over me and them.

You wanted to be like him -- to breathe the air he breathes, think the thoughts he thinks, taste his blood, his sweat and hardship toils.

You wanted to be like him but you didn't have the tools to build his life.

You didn't want to work so hard.

You'd lay in the sun like a lazy dog, you'd sweat away the afternoon, fast talk distract talk not a real kind of reliable man, not like his talk.

You tried to borrow his thunder but you stole his happiness, and you slipped in an alley without thinking how
your
fall
affected me as I waited inside patiently.

You broke both our necks, ripped our cords, smashed the glass that delicately held our fragile youth. I had to bag and composted it with the trash.

You wanted so much to be like him -- so you swam harder than him, and faster. You climbed higher than him, and steeper.

You wanted more and more and more until like a violent flower in the sun you wilted in the wind.

You fell so hard so fast the only one to catch you was yourself, and even you let go in the end.