The infatuation begins, one thousand five hundred seventy three miles away from my folded futon mattress on an unfinished floor in a sideways run down house with a gravel driveway and a wonky mailbox, across from a little green-grassed pasture with yellow flowers and "dead end" street signs lining the ditches.

Twenty three hours.
That's not that long when you really think about it.
Twenty three hours.
It's pretty far when you really think about it.

It's only the sand in my hourglass trickling down
over and over
and over and over and over.

(I was going to write the word "over" twenty three times,
but then I thought it might get a little annoying...
**** it; I'm going to do it anyway).

and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and just
one more time.  

You probably haven't closed your eyes or slept even a grain of that sand. I wonder how many flipped figures found you wondering about me.
It's only the tap of a drumstick to an ongoing metronome left running overnight after the musicians were done with the fun of humming.
You probably daydreamed of me singing lullabies in snow covered trees while your professor went on about 3/4 and music theory.

How many paradiddles until we can finally dance to the beat?

An even better question:
How many more clever titled playlists,
how many more empty sheets,
can I accept before I accept that I could fall right on my feet?
How many grains of sand?
How many metronome beats?