Some failure-added action I have never been too good at. I can play the role but get clumsy with nowhere to go. Not sure what to do with my hands. This fear of commitment and thinking that all this talk is only surface level. Like there is some great subdivide between action and desire and playing it off. Eyelashes bat like Betty Boop in black and white cartoon exaggerated pictures. Coiffing hair and applying makeup – become Adonis. I cannot shop around. There are just too many other, better things to do. I struggle with bridging the concept to daily reality. Soap scum underbelly in a speakeasy bar, dark and dim-witted patrons draped over their drinks and hunched in protective fashion. Circumstantial evidence, dotted-lines get signed, and folks get married at City Hall in spring time where flowers bloom to kiss the sun’s rays. Eloquent harmony, melody-maker. Skin off bones, chicken a la carte. Crosslegged dance from the seat, pretty. Pretending I’m skiing. Compliments and conversation rise to the surface of some ulterior physical motive. I don’t appreciate this, especially from strangers. Late-night, 10 PM, dead Monday night bar crowd. Ampersand Life. Rolling exquisite youth I am no longer a part of.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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