Hey Jude, About Michelle

Erin Della Mattia
Yesterday,
she came in through the bathroom window
with golden slumbers in her eyes,
saying how she loves you,
how she wants to hold your hand,
and I told her she’d have to carry that weight
of the glass onion in her chest and like Lady Madonna let it be.
Because you were just a paperback writer,
a real nowhere man,
hiding your love away
in strawberry fields forever.
She said something, mumbled something like
“I’m a loser.
All you need is love and I can’t even get that.”
I held her tight.
It was a hard day’s night.
Early in the morning,
she sobbed “Here comes the sun.
I should get back.”
I told her she could drive my car
but she had a ticket to ride
that yellow submarine of a bus.
Before she left I said “Girl,
you could hope for a revolution.”
The wind from across the universe
swept through her blackbird hair.
“Maybe, with a little help from my friends,”
she smiled. “Don’t let me down.”
So that’s why I’m sitting here
in some place on Blue Jay Way,
writing this letter.
You called her a day tripper,
but hey, Jude, she’s a woman and she loves you.
So for her sake, I hope you don’t have another girl.
And do you want to know a secret?
I’m worried about you. You once told me
“happiness is a warm gun,”
and you’ve been drifting around
here, there, and everywhere ever since.
If you’ve got trouble, tell me why.
How am I? I feel fine,
sometimes. But really,
in my life, it’s all too much. I’m tired.
It won’t be long now.
All things must pass, right?
But Michelle, she loves you.
From me to you,
Eleanor Rigby
P.S.
I love you.