Earworm

As you serenade me
with your inconsistencies,
railing against
your own fluid
nature, your failures
and poor choices,
ask yourself
as you wail: aren’t you 
at least half in love
with this song
you’re making
from your
contradictions?
It seems so obvious
that you’ve
written your life
as rock opera,
grand bombast
with one eye
upon the charts,
that I can’t fully believe you
when you wish out loud
for a simpler tune
to dance to. All 
you’ve ever done
is make this music
and call attention to 
this music and tour
endlessly behind this 
music and now you claim
it’s all been against
your own desires. It’s not
pity I feel exactly, although
I can imagine your pain
if it’s true; it’s not anger
or insult I’m feeling, as I love
you too much in my way
to fail entirely to see how
you do indeed believe this
on some level; it’s more 
a fatigue with the soundtrack
of the tale, a sense that
it’s been overplayed, a dawning
irritation or even boredom
with the sing-song chorus, the
repetitive verses,
and that confounded bridge 
like an earworm that keeps me
only half-aware of how badly
you need someone, anyone,
to listen.

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