I move when you move.
A pace, a pulse is pounding in my fingertips.

In five years you will know
everything there is to know about me
and more. I’m not your boot-stomping
wit-slinging sass machine,
wrestling with angels
for more than a name beauty queen.

Beside my bibles of glazed Gutenberg
and fuming Margaret Atwood,
I stare catatonic out the window.
Remembering you, knowing that crisp
September with smeared white clouds
bellied out white coat, heavy with snow.

I was never one to set things on fire,
never the fuse in a gun, carrying a flame
along a length of hidden insecurities.
But immune to analysis? I am proudly
a worshipper of anodized aluminum structures,
awakening the self-proclaimed nerd, social anxiety,
self-awareness via a shirt, Information age, while
tweaking the digital tragedy Mac-geek in all of us.

And despite it all I must hesitate, caught breath.
The song skips, each word a fishbone
scraping my throat, because I just sit and watch
as you “rock out with your cock out,”
because I wouldn’t want to offend
your sense of individualism or
subscribe to the arbitrary artificiality of
denying that every moon has a dark side.

That mysterious and hidden realm
so beloved by both progressive rock bands
and the metaphorically minded.
So instead let’s drink it up like Kerouac
and live like happy peas ensconced in a posh pod
with our heroin and our club sandwiches patrolling
our insides. We believe in a language only
to the extent of disrespecting it. Shit Damnit. Fuck.

Well in five years you will know
all there is to know about me.
Give me a reason, a cause
and I am the bleary-eyed late night,
never learned to heel or sit or stay after a 10 hour shift,
centered in the arms of a caffeine addiction
nineteen part symphony.
As my fingers root through the drawer
in search of a fresh pall,
unlike the one hanging over this city.

I move when you move.
A pace pulses through fingertips.
Eyes closed, dreaming in 2 weeks of lashes.