Nostalgia quakes and the shape of your silliness
And smug, cocky smile.
The self-imposed quietest in the room
And you somehow reach everyone.
Separate corners and you walk your fumble
Wheel cyclone.
And stop and drop a receipt or a coin fell out your pocket and corny
Joke about the meal or the moon
Or the barrel of tanker fuel I’m sitting on as I watch across
And the room disappears
And the cattleman feed and go find their bride
And yore more all the way back to garden gate and suddenly
You and I are the only ones left in the shop
And I can finally season the fucking food with no one looking. [except you.]
This is Bliss.
Night, Watch-Man.
petrichor - archive 