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.