by Marc Lionhart11 Jul 2013
I knew you barely, so, we rarely spoke.
Attempting in passing to know you, but was too nervous.
The eye contact was never lasting, seemingly without purpose.
I will retreat. So you don’t know me.
I only see myself as a foolish poet now I sit here and write this. What are words to you but the prose of an attention fix?
Needless paranoia as I have never written this before.
Write here, right here, exchange a look for yours.
Just turn away while I write this and be honest with you.
Women like you come into a category of few.
Yet your inspiration lies with men with their knuckles to the ground.
Not any more, not while I am around.
You may have never been the subject of creation.
Never felt the de-structured requiem of faltered confrontation through hindered inspiration.
Whatever I say, the words convey dismay.
I don’t intend to die by your side, or compare you to the light of day.
It may be so you fall into another fucking abyss, and I persist.
I list your attributes as quickly as hurtling towards the ground without a parachute.
I don’t expect a brute to catch me soon.
I’m hoping I’ll land in my living room.
I don’t expect to see you as the floor rapidly looms.
This is not another declaration of some untold love.
It’s barely even a sympathetic touch.
I rarely even expect a call from above.
Not from the beautiful lady, that’s too much.
Are you singing aloud? I know I am.
We could work out some incredulous plan.
At the very least work around the chasm of conformity.
Or we could count the endless possibilities, of possible connectivity