a teeny-tiny bug flying in my face,
I can't seem to shake ya, especially
when I see you playing Es Tu Mirada
from wherever you are,
with whomever you're with.
just sitting in the dining room,
eating cookies to cure my blues,
gotta iffy thing to do tomorrow,
but just wishing for Wyoming soon,
so I can be distracted by life from you,
and feel real love for once in a spring moon.
my laptop is hot
from all the writing and reflecting,
sharp like knife wounds after an afternoon
of being a dad and spending too much
at the damn dollar store, but finding
normal happiness these days.
comfort comes in many weird forms,
like the sound of the tv from the living room,
an indifferent thought of you,
knowing one day this will all be cute,
secured in a laughable past,
or, hell, I'll be dead and okay.