Oh my captain,
you are a secret compass
in my breast pocket.

A tiny urgency within my doublet
that insists me to your side
so that all the maps of my life
are your destination.

Taking stock
I tuck this year inside
the first little furrow-line
across my brow.

Hm. Skin's changing.
I'm changing.

There was more anguish in 24
than the Doc ordered.
Somehow, the endless easy wealth
endless easy employment
and eager entertainment
evaded me.

But there are also little dents on either side of my mouth now.
A ripple between lip and dimple.
There was joy on this face-
enough to carve its name forever.

24 and time has begun to speed up,
people talk a bit quicker
fleeter of foot
and calendar has begun
to foxtrot-

And I sit on the side of the Hall
watching the days dance on and on
how selfish they seem
How quickly Spring woos Summer
How fickle is Summer, as she whirls to Autumn
How chilly, Autumn as he falls for Winter,
How feverish, they dance.

24, a left-footed wallflower.
24 with wide eyes that try to capture
the entire world and hold it STILL.

This ball lasts forever and never.
There's no break.
24, I guess it's time to give Life my dance card
surrender and cut in,
24, ready, steady-

*let the dancing begin.

Don't call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.
My infatuation lies along the fault lines
tucked beneath the first
bumps of turbulence.

Don't say swooning,
not any ocean's salt could
revive me.

It's a tachycardia- a frenetic, feverish ardor
that keeps us
p a c i n g....
.... p a c i n g
p a c i n g....

                          

                    A mania.



Yes, that's it- I'm manic in love with you.
Ill with adoration for you.
Anxious over you.
Possessed by you.
Elated, then devastated by you.

Prescribe me nothing.
Let this ravage me until bones are soil
and one day this up-for-grabs heart is
donated to someone who
thinks their life has been saved but
can't quite put their finger on
that immortal ache written within each valve.

But do not call it falling.
Falling implies you can get up.