I have grown sick of painting trees.
Go tell Thomas not to follow me
past the pavement to the wood,
over a stroke of concrete.

Tell him to remember me
walking into the innocent night,
where our memories made love.
Tell him to think of me when it rains.

Like a stanza, I stand alone
to cross that bridge again.
My thoughts, my only friends,
heavy like clothing washed in melted lead.

I told him: I hate painting trees,
framing all of my would-bes,
biting pipes atop sandy shoals,
nights alone by the sea shore.

What have I been missing
by smoking in the parking lot,
eyeballing that mysterious night,
wishing that I was there?

What have I been missing
by never saying my prayers,
kissing boys with long hair,  
drowned in wine to forget my reflection?

Across that cement barrier:
holy bells and a choir hymn.
Open arms of brand new siblings.
Golden gates with silver wreaths.
I am going to lift myself up to Jesus.

I peek through the fringed leaves,
heaven sounds so new to me;
although, its just made up for
airplanes and paper dreams--
just go tell Thomas not to follow me.