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Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
Aboard her majesty's Mississippi steamboat,
we stared at the palisades,
and they glared back at us passersby.
And we spoke in radio static.
Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.

I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.

Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.

Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,

I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,

Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Andrew Dunham Feb 2017
The sun plays hide-and-go-seek on a midwinter's afternoon,
Darting constantly towards the next available cloud.
Beside my intermittent shadow flutter my companions,
Guided by the ever-changing, blustery gusts.
The snowflakes follow me home.

Windy, wafting whispers winding through dormant branches,
I hold my breath and count to ten to ignore their murmurs.
Hazy February clouds conceal indistinct peeps.
Should nobody else join me,
The snowflakes follow me home.

As I pass through the threshold and traipse across the floor,
Legs chilled and wavering over creaky wooden planks.
But I glimpse once more, out through tempered glass panes,
Reassured and reveling in the knowledge,
*The snowflakes follow me home.
Thought about this while walking home in a snowstorm.
Andrew Dunham Nov 2016
These constellations are just stale light.
Dimmer than the orange haze from streetlights,
Each proudly signaling the triumph of mankind.

These constellations are dead beacons from afar.
I need no north star to get home,
Street signs guide me just fine.

These constellations are bright ***** of dust.
Romanticized into patterns,
I can only remember the big dipper.
And passing planes.

These constellations are lifeless light.
Andrew Dunham Jun 2016
The coffee was too sweet as I mentally sketched a blueprint for each sentence I hope to speak. My tongue eagerly bounced between the most eloquent wordings to express thoughts that even you probably know are too complex for me.

I firmly grasped my the frigid mason jar, afraid that the same twilight that illuminated all the right parts of your face and highlighted your rogues strands of hair like golden thread would be enough to knock me from my seat. If I explained that, would it be romantic?

I pondered whether geeky comedy could be my niche. Decided against it. My hands grew colder from icy condensation and hesitation.

Every calculated consonant passing through your lips becomes fuzzier as i balance my focus so you don't notice how distracting you are. I struggle to pretend this is effortless for me, too.

I wished with each passing moment that I weren't one moment closer to death, one less moment sipping sugary coffee in your company.

I wished each passing moment elapsed quicker. my coffee is dwindling, the lump in my throat is a landform in of itself.

Though I'd rather babble about the universe and love, history and life, your small talk captivated me. Vowel after vowel. Of ambient noise, you could compose symphonies, your stare a screenplay, of simple Walmart trips, novels.

Of me, I'm but the fly on the wall in a fleeting moment of daylight in a rocky chair in a café in a day of your life upon which I couldn't even confess that I think about you more than the universe and history and life and coffee. Until you know that, I'll see you next time and we'll order the coffee black.
Andrew Dunham Mar 2016
Under hazy violet twilight hum sprites
Performing acrobatics above my head
Eyes fixated on the popcorn ceiling
They sing the body electric
In the cinema between four off-white walls

Under lazy muggy moonlight I hang tight
Watching pixies become gremlins
Eyes chartreuse, bright, and bulging
Scurry down walls and seek refuge beneath me
Becoming the neurotic symphony of aging pipes.

Under fading fluorescent lights I sit upright
Scanning all four corners for my personal bogeyman
Eyes bloodshot, heavy, and weary
Once again close beneath then fortitude of quilted mass
Becoming another night of stuttering slumber.
Andrew Dunham Mar 2016
The wrinkled man who shrugged off my laments
Disregarded despondence
Left me lonesome on a freezing night
Waiting for the next northbound

But he's no friend of mine

The lady in blue who
Always knew better
Knew the truths and
She didn't need any **** suggestions

But she's no friend of mine

God watched from his stone steeple
Admired the downward spiral
Like rock 'em sock 'em robots
Eagerly trying to decapitate themselves

But he's no friend of mine

How could I be fooled by poorly constructed word
Let me taste empathy
And to think that I almost durst to think
That I wasn't alone

But they're no friends of mine

The bedsheets ensnare me in a morning haze
gives me a newfound appreciation for my Blank walls and ceiling
I admire them
Illuminated by the slightest amount of light to make them visible
Peering through my blinds like a peeping Tom

Yes, quite a good friend of mine.
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