my days have been drifting by. i've spent them unphased, dreamy, automatic. i stare at people, spaces as if ready to draw them. i hunger to connect even as i leave the scene.
there must be a story for me to tell. i mean, not here, but somewhere outside. a coming of age? a broken heart made whole? saving the world from giant robots? anything but "my days have been drifting by." i consume a lot of books and news and television, but it doesn't help. inspiration comes from somewhere. i'm sure it must come from within, but i've been shaking it and nothing's come out yet.
. . .
i watered your garden, walking
daddy-longlegged between your beds.
please dancer, come home.
i watched your show, wishing
it was my body between your legs.
please dreamer, come home.