I want to write
But I don’t have the words
So I watch the ink seep silently
I know you’re thinking I’m absurd
So many empty notebooks
To fill with small little doodles & swirls
Intimidated by the stark whiteness
I don’t know how to create lasting worlds
Pondering & delving into thought
Present in my feelings with offerings to burn
Slowly churning my fickle imagination
In the hopes a bit of creativity might return
Let’s normalize matrons flashing
I fancy the unexpected & a little brash
She gets my eyes swirling & I’m lightheaded
Fully transfixed; my heart’s going to crash
I can’t help but stare at her dancer’s legs
My eyes keep placing them in second position
The way they move without effort
My pulse quickens; a love in transition
To the glee of an unsuspecting audience
The mesmerized & enchanted crowd
Now forever willing to do her bidding
She winked at me & couldn’t be more proud
Radiating a positive vibe henceforth
A smile & skip in the most mundane chores
Yet perceptions of domestic divinity
Always can accomplish just a little more
Backlogged Cinderella fantasies
Dancing amid a swirl with a feather duster
Cautiously watching; epically vulnerable
Wondering if my heart might trust her
It’s no fairytale ending, but a good life
A drink & a fire, quietly getting better
She’s content without our consent
Cracking a book, curling up into her sweater
Flirting with a literary-inclined woman
Sitting puzzled by the glances she took
Wondering what’s swirling in her mind
Guessing she’s judging based on my books
Worshiping the lady’s flesh
I am not divine, yet hope she might be
Kissing before daylight, the way we used to
Adjusting to my senses; that I might finally see
Drinking black coffee out of Delta cups
The cheap seats listening to Empire Burlesque
Mixed metaphors crawling in the night
Still pondering why a raven is like a writing desk
Dislodged tea parties & cries of Nevermore
The world swiftly swirling all around me
Reducing myself into my words
Hiding now within punctuation & necessity
Unsure of our place in time
Triangulations are stretch marks on the soul
Society wants me to be all shiny
But more often than not, I’m tired & dull
Where do we find our inspirations
The formulations upon our existence
Personalities discarded to the rubbish pile
Pushing us further away within time & distance
Swapping Daisy Buchanan for Lady Brett
Dreams & visions traded for a martini glass
The swirls of ice resemble their hearts
The disappearing notion of the dignified class
So we raise a toast for decent luck
These three olives constitute her daily menu
Dancing off silently out onto the veranda
Subtly becoming her own performance venue
Captain Q 