the lover's bench.

 I find myself
sitting on the lover's bench–
loveless, but hopeful,
foolish?
Goosebumps, jet fuel, a jackhammer's echo beside me.

Everything seems brighter, despite the chills that creep down the skin on my arm.
I am engulfed by a new sense of warmth.
To the beat of my off-beat antics–I hope.

Anticipation is wishful thinking's trusted companion, and the rational mind's Friday night cocktail.

Some things just stick to you, whether you want them to or not. Much like stray hairs and lipgloss...

Must we always speak in tongues?

Do we recognize the ideal lies to tell ourselves, and idealize merely ordinary folks?                                     

I sure refuse to believe so, mostly upon the faulty principle of "ordinary folks"–sure, some possess a brighter sparkle in their eye–but isn't it miraculous enough for a sentient soul to walk this earth?

Some questions I've got, just wondering.