I am fingertip smudges on picture windows, and cold toes in tangled sheets,
no longer neatly tucked beneath the corners of my bed.
I am a chronic infomercial watching insomniac without slamchops or shamwow's in my kitchen cabinets.
I am the awkward responses and sweaty palms that greet the girl I pine for at the department store.
I am the owner of the belt she told me she liked, that I never wear.
I am a constant occupant of an imagination far to deep and vast to begin to understand.
I am a chick flick lover, with too many daydreams inspired by Fight Club.
I am the stranger who picks up a penny on the crosswalk when it's facing heads up, and the one who kicks it when tails is showing.
I am the one who will hold the door for you when your hands are full and you're running late, just to hear you say "thank you."
I am ailed by the same insecurities as J. Alfred Prufrock, and none are spoken of as eloquently as Eliot could explain.
I am a well practiced air guitarist that performs every night in front of the bathroom mirror, before and after each piss.
I am hopelessly attracted to women in sundresses, and vintage apparel.
I am still praying for the ghosts of my past to become tangible again.
I am the muse of the imprint pressed into my mattress each morning.
I am here, just trying to do the best that I can.
Created: Jul 30, 2010Document Media