In my dreams, it makes sense.
                                                               It's axiomatic.
            Like flexing an impalpable muscle.
                             A curling of the toes,
                                 clenching of the sphincters,
      I feel my feet lift from the ground
                                                    
and I levitate.

The lot of us strangers trying too hard to stay aloof in a narrow corridor plagued by awful trendy folk music blaring out of unseen speakers and I shrouded in silence wore it a pseudo-epidermal layer taut force field writing this poem so to be a little more pretentious than most by opting not to check social media and the selfie I posted this morning not sure how many likes it's gotten since an hour ago but I'm not going to check yet Everyone here looks so miserable and it's barely 8 AM the Kate Gosselins and Ben Afflecks grab their coffee like a servant grabs the King's goblet to test for poison there's this mumble of a thank you seeping out of frozen lips and half opened eyelids harnessing dull hazy eyes and they drudge back to their hybrid cars with their five dollar savior and amble down the gaping highway that consumes their soul and all the while shoulders never touch and eyes never meet and we stand idly in the waiting room watching the alchemists conjure up our poison thinking about our selfies and how much we hate ourselves and our lives but honestly I just wanted my first pumpkin spice latte of the season celebrating the first cool day of the year in my denim jacket I resurrected with glee out of the elated closet in the middle of September so I say Beware you miserable cretins you obligatory acolytes of the virulent elixir one day you'll wake up and no amount of coffee will purify this cesspool you've lain yourself into like a regretful baptism you didn't believe in.

I know love not as an arm around a waist,
nor fingers teasing hair and running down a neck--

but as a temporary tattoo,
and the fleeting taste of Zebra Fruit Stripe Gum.

And just like Da Vinci never slept,
but took several naps a day--
So do I fall in love daily,
but tenfold!

The deep yearning that wells within my soul
and sits as the lump lodged within my aching throat,
I stumble through the day tripping over my enamoredness
towards any kind soul who dares to look my way,
or speak my name,
or touch my hand--

and I want to set up a kissing booth
in the middle of a shopping center
or my college campus,

and solicit others to grant me a taste of their humanity
in the holiest of ways,
man or woman,
young or old,

to but press their lips against mine for a second
and I would become illuminated,
rejuvenated,

and I would leap from my weary mental confines
like a grasshopper springing out of tall grass,
and love would well up within me--

Not as a transient fix,
but an anchor in these uncharted waters,
a cool glass of milk to a parched throat in a late night hour,

outlasting any cheap ****** or content stomach,
and shying away the facade of complacency.

I would burst forth like a battering ram
through the prison cell doors I weep and wallow behind,
and I'd have a skip in my step
that would ferry me across every pond and great lake.

For these hands do not pray,
but they tremble, and they ache.

And these lips do as hands do,
as they rest upon a placid face
that looks in the mirror and reads
of the anguish seeping out of inflamed pores
and burrowing between the creases
alluding a furrowed brow,

and if but a kiss could render one free
from such odious palpations,
then I'll gladly set mine to the liberator,
whomever it may be--

And how many lips does it take
to get to the center of my frozen aching heart?

The world may never know.