Three soulmates deep into a mid-twenties lifestyle.
Where I say nothing, do less, barely walked a mile
In my own shoes, let alone the fortunateless.
And when she says,
"Oh, my bugaboo. Can you, for me, please,
I smile, for lack of a better expression,
at her rueless lesson for me, which is
all I can surmise,
to have been meant as
Shocked now, and a few fingers deep in the bourbon.
"Did you know it must come from Kentucky?"
Of course she did, and she spun my spinning back around,
and now wrapped up in myself, as I tend to be, sat half-tipsy
on the hallway credenza-- I thought, for lack of a better imagination,
about the station from which she heralds through some truth.
A flag raised but not saluted.
I regret for a few turmoils. The clicking tocks of ticking clocks.
A minute is such a long time when you expect it to end,
and I feared this romance barely a fortnight into,
"Look, me, you. I don't think this is going to work.
I don't think this is working."
Where was the loudness? Sudden, or not. Not.
Was this right? Expression was meant, otherwise
what is anything and its proper place?
I sat woke in my bed now. Looking at her chest, the curve of her nose.
And as I rose further and felt the warmth of our body heat trapped
beneath the comforter escape, I was jealous.