I don't believe in mysticism,
but I think I'd like to.
How romantic of a notion
to believe that the stars align
to whisper our fates,
to believe that every being
has a purpose, a higher calling.
That without me,
the world would be different.

I try to believe in these shady concepts
on Tuesday nights, when
all I see is smoke
and the putrid smell of broken dreams
seeps through my thin, plaster walls.
And I try to believe this
when I think that
it'd be all too easy to disappear.

You never cared how late
I came home
(or if I even did)
or when I'd leave my piles of homework
next to the stove,
ignored.
If I wanted a cigarette,
you'd give me one,
even when the pungent burn
made me cough for hours.

But when you found me praying
at 1 a.m., cold knees on the tile floor
hands clasped together in silent
desperation
you'd lose it.
I never understood why
you would scream and
drag me back to bed, slamming
the door.
Silently, sliding my feet across
the moon-kissed floor,
I'd press my ear into those
thin, plaster walls
and hear you crying.

And that's when I remember
why you don't believe in mysticism.