I chase.
Not because I’m sick of this dark place,
Not because living with more screens than people leaves me with a bitter taste,

Not because my legs feel well rehearsed,
As if not in motion they will be burdened by a lonely man’s curse,

Not because I have any sort of plans,
Not to make myself feel more like a man,
Not even to prove it to myself that I can,

I chase because if life is what we make it,
Then I have made you beautiful.

Because the sky gets soft and bleeds orange, red, and pink sometimes and it makes me wonder about what you’re doing.  

So even after I choke on the horrific taste of my own shoe’s lace, I take a break, listen to The Beatles, and get back to my chase.

I get back to trying too hard to impress,
Back to tapping out words on a phone that have never left my lips,
Because my thumbs are jealous of my other fingers who get to fly away on musical trips,
And say all I would want to say without feeling the need to draft phony Hollywood scripts,
So this is how my thumbs get back at me; with a swing and a miss!

There is a man, whose face is a furious shade that works inside my thumbs all day,
He works with steam and machines and monitors and screens and his windows see the same things through his altered bleeds of orange, red, pink, plus grey.
And the only good about him I can say,
Is that he tragically, always, clocks in on time.

Unlike me.

But luckily, there is only one of him and two of us,
You go for the legs, I will tackle his bust,
And I know our encounters have only been a simple brush,
But I think that we would have fun,
Using them to paint up something warm like the sun,

Whose rays I have missed but finally welcomed back,
And have forced me to think about living,
So I wrote you this poem.