Sometimes wishes do come true.
There’s this urge to reach out and leave my fingerprints on your face,
like a little, delicate claim to that moment of your life
because I don’t know if you’ll remember me in ten years
if I don’t at least try now.
I think I’m in love.
I don’t burn the small hours of the morning with just anyone and
you seem more than willing to put aside that cigarette to
talk to me about your theories on God.
Do you share like this with anyone else?
I think you are too.
You pull smiles from my lips so easily and I almost don’t catch
them in time to dim them down; you probably
already know, but I want to clutch onto this game of a secret
for just five more minutes.
The thought scares me. It’s been too long.
We could be astronomical. Already we’re stuck by that weird
bonding chemistry of sarcasm and loneliness born of
not having found an equal. Both of us wandered into
the same gin joint and locked eyes.
This may be it.