Right now we are a theory,
The secret kindle of our conference,
A dim twilight concept
And what’s coming is the testing
The fun is in the trial and endless error,
In slurring bad haikus about the moon and your hair
And you humouring me
Calling me on my crap
It’s in both of us pretending I’m just walking you home
And the hasty clap of hands
Once we’re sure we’re alone
It’s in the playful drunk arguing and finger tips on arms
The hollow ring of ill-suited similes
And the pleasant gut-ache
From eyes locked over the sharing of the only clean mug.
You’re a kaleidoscope;
I can’t see straight,
But I don’t care.
I’ll forgo the light and day
For the stained-glass headache you give me,
For your lukewarm affections.