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What are you waiting for?
Talking myself out of tomorrow.
And with any luck next November.
Yes. My hair gets darker when I'm depressed.
Why don't you come sit on my lap and hear all about it?
I promise I won't bite
the wrong spots
Why am I depressed?
Because you have a smile that's real.
Because your laugh is like novacaine.
Because I can't put these arms around your hips
or my chin on your shoulder
because I could tell you a thousand jokes
a million stories
and hand you a lifetime of giddy infatuation.
I could love you in the ways you've only read about.
I could experience you more vividly than Carpaccio saw red.
I could feel you with more intent than Vangogh's left ear.
I could taste you with more salt than the imperial army's wage.
Instead I'm a passing nod, or the occasional long, aimlessly sullen quip.
Glad we had this talk.
