You have so plesently
returned to my life
as if I had known
you would all along
and even with the skeptasism still in the air
your fingers runing through my hair
is where they belong

If I'm itching inside my own skin,
If there's a bit of wild carrying on in,
around,
or perhaps behind
perhaps over, around, somewhere besides my eyes,
If I seem unseemingly unladylike today,
I'm sorry.
Scatterbrained? Surely, certainly, you've noticed.
If you know me, you know this.
I carry on, convincingly
all the while my mind careens away.
Dangerously, it careens away.
Away, attacking the menacingly mundane,
away to a place much more pleasant.
Plesently, myriad of melodrama unfold.
I tell myself stories untold.
I'm so sorry I'm scatterbrained, darling.
I do know.