we can't see eye-to-eye
[literally]...
you mirror my smile.
whether it's because
it's like my own
or because we're
peas, I might not know
because
you're a book I
still can't read.

You just can't
compete with
**** Me
boots.

The leather-clad calves
that
whisper "come to bed...
I promise so
many touches"

Cardigans merely dictate
"shoulders maybe...
You  so much as peek
at my
collarbones, and you're
done for,
Mister."

Spoken -
Maybe I would
tease...

"Try only,
to kiss
my cheek
because I'm
on the
boring bus"
(and especially
in your Chamber)

Or so you
would suppose.

But inside this
sweater, I'm
a *Butterfly.

I don't like you
sometimes.
I don't like me
either.
We're the same halves
of different stars
Or is it
the reverse?
I thought
I glimpsed something
in your face.
But no
It was just the
light.
My
Mistake.

Am I a wanderer?
You would think
surmise
muse that
after twenty five
years with
myself I
would know

All I have
determined is
that sometimes
I lay awake
Like an alien
In my own bed
And feel the holes
worn in my feet
by shoes standing
too long
in one place

Maybe that's
my answer
or Maybe it
just scares
me to remain
where the
ground can
keep tabs
on me.

Because if
I do, then
Life can
Catch Up
long enough
to shake her
Finger at
Me til I
Cry.

I sit by myself
My feet fit in the space
behind the rows
my boots feeling
the stick of leftover
pop
residue of someone else's
night out.
when the blue and black
of this giant space
comes up and the
sound invades the air
around my shoulders
I settle
and let the thinness
of fake light
triumphant music
and the emotions
of beautiful
sociopathic creatures
fix and fill
the holes and
crannies in
the road of
my lonesome
soul.

I am stumbling around with all of these souls
palms slapping- 'Good Game, Good Game'.
Like Uno or Memory
My instructions:
Find the matching cakes, flowers or dice...
But...
Being able to target- to heat seek and know
Instantly
that you don't fit with them...
I worry.
A giant misshapen
Puzzle piece in the
Cosmic factory bin
What if God forgot
To make me
A Match?

I need
a new notebook
or to engage
on the phone with
Life and
tell it to
slow down.
I can't write
fast enough
with these
feeble hands.