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I want to give you a Tokyo cityscape
and sleepless nights to go with
that smile.
maybe then you’d appreciate… but instead I’ll just
sit, impotent and distilled, hunched over the armrest of
a January porch swing, stare at my bare feet and
pretend I’m not sick—
I’m only wearing jeans so you can’t see my hands shake.
clumsy and unthinking fingertips in the
small of your back have made you an accidental push in the
wrong direction
leaving me two steps behind where we started.
my midnight thrift-store lines try to keep up with
that laughter that rides on the edge of every word,
but end up trailing off as we shiver without eye contact—
as long as we sit in this ecstatic solitude,
make me your awkward Casanova,
quietly drunk and pleading on a six dollar doormat
and I will listen,
past all the gangster rap and
tardy alarm clocks as we perch and poke fun
at ourselves.
You have sung me moonstruck.
*this is a re-write of a poem I gave to someone very close to me…it is as close as I could get to the original
Casey Rock
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