confusing senses
at that party (the one you wish you hadn't agreed to attend)
where all you saw were hands.
inside, hands mixing your drink (your liquid courage).
now chase him like you said you would.
but where to next?
outside, hands in the clean spring air (smoking).
shhh, listen the street cleaners' hum.
it announces your survival of another season, without.
now start the choirs of bells all around (contained within your head).
the high deflecting thoughts and protecting you.
back indoors, hands beneath the bathroom's burning faucet.
in the corner of a crowded room (you catch sight of him).
he moves with just the right amount of bounce in his step,
is constantly correct, and behaves perfectly at parties.
why can't he hear your eyes screaming his name?
but you're confusing senses again. sight for sound.
back to your hands.
they are working the switchboards and diverting thoughts.
confusing your messages.
back home, filling the tub, a mural of shadows
in the bathroom candles' light.
twenty-one silhouettes of the same beast. all belonging to you.
now under the water. holding your breath.
extension cords running across floor. technology predating a time
when you could logon to view the catalogue of thoughts
he puts there for you.
your hands, breaking the surface. forty-two hands reflecting
all around you
and not a single one his.
too many hands and not a single one reaching for you.
at that party his pants stayed on for a reason
(because he has something to offer someone better).
you can't make him see you the way that you see him.
your done with being a lapdog to the world.
your hands, reaching for the towel..
close your eyes, deep breath (now exhale)
your hands reaching for the towel (but
throwing in the electric blanket).
nathan.
where all you saw were hands.
inside, hands mixing your drink (your liquid courage).
now chase him like you said you would.
but where to next?
outside, hands in the clean spring air (smoking).
shhh, listen the street cleaners' hum.
it announces your survival of another season, without.
now start the choirs of bells all around (contained within your head).
the high deflecting thoughts and protecting you.
back indoors, hands beneath the bathroom's burning faucet.
in the corner of a crowded room (you catch sight of him).
he moves with just the right amount of bounce in his step,
is constantly correct, and behaves perfectly at parties.
why can't he hear your eyes screaming his name?
but you're confusing senses again. sight for sound.
back to your hands.
they are working the switchboards and diverting thoughts.
confusing your messages.
back home, filling the tub, a mural of shadows
in the bathroom candles' light.
twenty-one silhouettes of the same beast. all belonging to you.
now under the water. holding your breath.
extension cords running across floor. technology predating a time
when you could logon to view the catalogue of thoughts
he puts there for you.
your hands, breaking the surface. forty-two hands reflecting
all around you
and not a single one his.
too many hands and not a single one reaching for you.
at that party his pants stayed on for a reason
(because he has something to offer someone better).
you can't make him see you the way that you see him.
your done with being a lapdog to the world.
your hands, reaching for the towel..
close your eyes, deep breath (now exhale)
your hands reaching for the towel (but
throwing in the electric blanket).
nathan.