i always have such furtive expectations for a scribble in the daydream of a tabletop or in the scattered moon powder of regeneration or just in the shaved parts of my head, its going nowhere
and youre making it harder cause im sitting here looking at you from in front of your counter and thinking about that black polo t shirt clinging to yr body and how just a day ago i saw you naked and then watced you get dressed for work. that in between part where yr hair was pulled up and scarved and yr belly was a reflection in yr mirror til you turned around and let me kiss it. that was the best part of my day,
maybe i shouldnt see you like this-making drinks for all yr regulars, i do not want to be them
taking a smoke break- 10 minutes on a patio making small talk, no i do not want to do that really
i'd rather be looking at you while the trains shake yr whole house
you wink at me while lines dissolve into sea foam atop a bold roast horizon
and instead of winking back my eyes opened wide searching again for a day ago when yr legs were still so long and you noticed the difference and wouldnt have it any other way.
i dont really want to write about you while yr watching me
but this is my day off
about the hundredth one in a row now
and i cannot think of any other way to spend it except to keep my fingers glued to pens, swallowed in paper and a quick glance between yr day job and yr burnt down house
this is a stagnant piece of seaweed floating atop the wave we'll ride to get closer
closer than i would have imagined a day ago
closer than i wouldve ever thought a year ago
when we get there, how far will we still be from the infinite craving for closure?