i was eight thousand, eight hundred and eleven days old when i wrote this, in case that matters to you.
sleeping alone
another day, another dollar,
another notch in my little belt.
i’m gunna be alright.
(at least that’s what i tell myself.)
it’s a hard line to walk,
this whole “i have standards” thing.
but absolutely a worthy stance…
as i’m disinterested in a simple fling.
the remainder is sexual tension,
always boiling my blood red hot.
i’m so glad that people can’t read my mind!
talk about food for thought!
the way i peer at people sometimes
makes even me feel weird.
but i can’t help but feel sexual attraction.
it’s not a curse to be feared.
alas, i deserve someone who can keep my pace
and call me out when i’m wrong.
someone who knows what aerogel is,
and can powerhit a bong.
it sounds pretty simple, i guess
when it’s put that way.
but it’s not a simple recipe,
with ingredients i won’t say.
it needs to be organic, immediate and consuming.
something that mystifies the wisest of men.
it needs to be something i could never depict,
an unwritten symphony playing softly in a din.
