I've been thinking about calling you
by stoop-kid
and it's a thought I've entertained, because
there's something intangible about the way
you let my name slip from your mouth,
and if I could hear you smile when you
feed into silly jokes (that I sometimes
never know how to finish,) with
a sprightly riposte and a laugh—
well, no man would know as charming
of a night song as I would.
so I often smooth out an endless atlas
of all the routes and maxims that would
escort you to the comfort of my being;
and I find myself ready until I remember that
I am guilty of never carrying a compass most days,
and counter every instinctive emotion
with a thought and a doubt, and I keep forgetting
to not travel about with the shaming fear of mistaking
moments of selfishness for those of tenderness.
which explains why I've pinched my tongue
with my teeth every time I think to admit
that getting enough sleep hasn't really done much
since some nights, I am lonely, and being able to let
every tired limb wander and stretch across
the entire bed makes other nights a little tougher.
I swear I don't mean to adore you—but I do,
and I think it would be nice to see you again;
I've been thinking about that most days, too
(because it does sound nice,) but if you didn't know
that was where I was coming from, I'm hoping
on the next chance we get to meet somewhere
in the middle of the lives we zip through so briskly,
that now you do.
you can give me a call, it doesn't have to be soon;
and it's only if you've been thinking about it, only if
you been meaning to catch the sound of my smile
behind an eager hello before you ready your compass
and ask...
“It's been a while, what are you doing next weekend?”