Sitting in the haze of smoke, arranging
thoughts of mine that are so quickly fleeting
and flying from my mind towards my thumbs
as a Dante singing praise of Beatrice,
or a man in black walking the line for June.
With you and misery as my muse, I stumble
to my room, dazed, focused on remembering the words
and the arrangement they first held in my head.
And here I am, a long-haired ***,
a beatnik marching to the beat of his own drum.
This is too much about me, not enough about you,
here’s your spotlight, it’s long overdue.

It’s a frigid night, I peer through the window and
you’re there, wearing ripped jeans, a faux leather jacket,
a punk rocker somehow avoiding cliche.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve
instinctively smiled just at the sight of you, knowing
that for at least a while, in my mind,
all is well.

You reach to give me a hug
and I don’t shy away; I’m not one for hugs,
I don’t even like hugging my mother, but
with you it feels right:
a one-armed hug with a two-armed intensity.
Food is ordered,
seats are taken,
chatting commences.
I don’t particularly like the food; that’s fine,
It’s not the reason I’m there anyways.
I’ll barely remember what you said afterwards
but I’ll always remember how you made me feel.
Even with the brief time we have
we find ways of making it last, after all,
happiness has the longest half life of all emotions.

Like that, it's over, as if a snap of the fingers
is all it takes to lose you. I tell myself
it's better to have loved and lost,
then to have never loved at all.
But that doesn't help in the moment.
In the moment, all I can think of is how I'd ****
to be by your side, for just another minute.