Your stand.
A little shift in the weight of your legs
And I, who can’t even think of your legs
Without blushing.
And your arms
Two perfect limbs that remind me
Of some perfect redwoods I wanted to see
They hang.
Neither at your sides nor shoved in your pockets
As if you don’t know what to do with them
Lazy and unsure.
But it’s your hands that
Perfected the sense of touch
True to your earthly sign.
Within three months
I learned where your scarecrow stood
In the smile that never reaches your eyes
In your worries that never cease
I count them as I watch you sleep
I’ve come to enjoy them.
Because they speak of who you are
And of where you’ve been.
But it’s your scent,
The smell of your arms
I inhale your day
And dream of that noisy apartment you
Called Home
Where I could live in your closet
And you know where I’d be
Wrapped in a shirt I once kept.

I wish I could go back in time
When clouds hung above my head
When they were only so far
My childish hands could touch
And in lazy waves they went
Traveling between spread fingers
Before I was told they were farther
Than I had imagined.
And I stopped looking at clouds.

We are just like
Those cars that follow
Roads of long asphalt tongues
Wet from greasy rain
We are the 9 to 5
Or the 6 to 7 or 8
The never ending sloth of the mundane
Our heads shoved into pathetic cars.
Following the same stench
Rising from the same throat
As labor regurgitates
And we crawl
We are released back into the holes
We rose from.

Sometimes when I feel alone, I like to watch TV.
I won’t put a movie on.
It disrupts me and disconnects me from the world.
It must be regular TV.
So that maybe, in some way, I am connected with thousands of other lonely people.