Thursday, April 13, 2017

I may be silent, but that hardly means I’m any less smitten with Katie Boyd.

Just because I haven’t written a poem for Katie in a while doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her or that I’m any less in love with her.
I’ve been warm for her form and intoxicated by her whirling dervish mind ever since the world crawled from God’s cold, dead hands and became its own force to be reckoned with.
Evolution is but a cliff note and if you don’t believe me just ask Charlie once he’s done playing with his tortoises and hanging out with Snoopy and Woodstock.

Look I hardly know what I’m going on about and that’s all on account of Katie Boyd and how she affects my mind.
It’s as if I’m drunk and I hardly even had a sip of wine. In fact I’ve been drinking diet grape juice all night and haven’t smoked any pot in far too long a time.
She’s the girl next door I always wanted to get to know, but was too afraid to approach because I figured she was way too cool for the boring and trying likes of me.

I’ve been a wallflower long before wallflowers came into vogue and I don’t expect to bloom anytime soon even though I’m nearly fifty years old and being an adult is something I should have committed to a long time ago.
I don’t have any blueprint and perhaps that’s the issue at hand because I never plan for anything and when it comes to preventative medicine I’ve always opted for less pills and more prayer.
Her inquisitive eyes and winsome sighs brought me to this jumping off place where the rubber meets the road and the hopeless romantics either get with the program or end up left out in the cold.

Charles Cicirella

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