Sometimes in the serene embrace of evening’s quiet
I wonder if you think about me…
is it possible that in syncopated reciprocation
we linger in each other’s afterthoughts
fleeting moments of potential bliss met with a twist
of reality’s jovial and uncaring truth.
is it possible that of all the people in all the world
out of the many men that inhabit places near and far from you
that you consider how my day went?
the truth is, as I sit at this computer
I am battling with my wits with the image of you
reconciling conflicting perceptions of your being
and when my mind is done playing tricks with me,
my heart considers the possibility of things to be
I’m not hungry for the stuff of imagination
infatuation isn’t a delectably enticing dish
yet, I seem to cherish it like it was finger lickin’ good.
what would it look like if I asked you how you were doing?
could it possibly make me look like I’m desparate for you?
I’m not.
does it seem like I’m a lonely soul looking for anything?
I’m not.
I’m consistently content with the way that things are?
doesn’t seem like it
Vernacular Dysfunction 