You hold my hand.
(Well, at least that’s how we say it goes—)
I type out plans, then go back
to fix the way it flows. I welter
for a way of being cool, captivating—
give it all I’ve got in case it’s not
just fancy fabrication.
Can I say…
(just between friends?)
I lie awake and read back your words
when the conversation ends. I want the
ebbs and flows and brazen rhymes; I’d
take sleepless hours, toss and turn to have
all your thoughts intwist in mine—
Don’t let them let me go.
It’s late again.
And though time is kind of getting old,
I’ll romanticize it as I listen to a storm unfold
and I look at you in a pious hue; you know
I ache to crawl right through that screen,
to make it lead into a place where
you could touch me... yet
For a bold and brittle moment,
I look out and dare
to the vapour and spray:
“come and take me away—”
Then it cracks.
But you’re still there, so I say
“Will you stay and watch it pour?”
“I’m not afraid of a little rain,
it’s just lonely on my floor…”
as all the dreams of October
bleed into just fall—I want to climb
over an old garden wall where a
woodsman and bluebird would say
where to go, but I’m not a cartoon,
and that’s not mine to know, so
just tell me you want me.
I don’t need a dance—
I’ll write what I picture
and long for a glance
as I’m thinking—
(I’m thinking…)
forgot to
keep blinking,
just stared
to eternize this
quasi-romance.