I
want you in fits and starts.
Want
you in pitters and pats.
This
isn’t a confession or even a manifesto.
Just
something I needed to get off my chest.
I
want to speed up and slow down with you.
Want
to go the distance and stop short on a long pier while we pretend we don’t
recognize each others inner children.
There’s
nothing I would prefer more than to have a play date with you and your wiener dog.
The
poetry keeps us slim and ready to fight the noxious melancholia of another good
morning.
In
a dream I am sopping up gravy with an invisible piece of Wonder Bread as I do
my best to come to terms with what it means to get lost in the stacks with you.
The
books like sentries guard us as we explore the outer reaches of a landscape
drawn and quartered by one more miserable son of a bitch.
You
whispered into my stir fried ears how very much you enjoyed my understated company as the
Doors reminded us just how far we’d wandered off course.
Just
received a text that felt like you were backing away which I can understand because
the place where I live is not comprised of fairy tales or weasels that go pop
in an undulating night of frozen pea promises and sticky marshmallow regrets.
I
want you to break open my head like a passive aggressive piñata hell-bent on world
domination.
Want
you to push me over the White Cliffs of Dover with your champagne eyes and
murder mystery mouth.
This
isn’t a story about the one that got away or even a nursery rhyme about the
terminally cheerful who always fail before finally sinking one hole in one
after another.
Just
something I wanted to share with you before all the beer has been drunk and the
bartender calls last call.
Charles Cicirella
10/10/2016
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