Sta.sh
who-i-am dangles its
legs off the precipice
of past tense.
how history has cooled
and soothed me, its
thrashing seaspray
a tickle at my ankles
what prophecies
had i deemed impossible?
now i find
nostradamus to be true
in the dogeared pages of your
eyes, a cliche run over
and over by my metaphorical
range rover
back in the day when i
spent all my time looking
in the mirror into the black
hole of my own black eyes
for some sort of comfort
back in the day i threw roses
over my shoulder at no one.
coy was impossible taken
to such lengths. and those roses,
well, they were never well received,
and they were never retrieved
and i now know why.
it's not easy for the casual eye
to discern, but in order to get
full circle you have to go through
the motions: in love, not in love, don't
believe in love, this isn't love. then you're
whisked through the revolving doors
of some dame's tongue-in-cheek
and then lucky you. you're in love.
isn't that what frankie
would sing as he swings?
though i still can't
bring myself to believe in
it, the dial does bump up
from one speed to two
and when i hit it into
overdrive in my least
composed of throes
i could bellow,
baby i love you!
-but i catch myself.
get ready
for the sprint.
i round the corner at
my top velocity chugging
without stopping for pause
or a cig-a-rette breath-
your arm in mine
and we're off!
laughing without
locking eyes.
no fear and no room
in my empty head for
even a shred of dread
to mischief,
full speed ahead.
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