it would be far from the only borders
that divide me from you.
calloused fingers,
rounding edges,
you speak of me like some craftsman
when the only craft i know
is the mad chase of ideas
the making of little pointless things
that still mean so much to me
for all the confidence and swagger
i’ve carried through work lately
as i’m sucked into the fold
of their idle conversation
they seem aghast
that i studied literature
“that seems so out of character”
little mad ideas
impossible dreams I never seem to fill.
i could never kiss you the way the sun does
leave you glowing from our embrace.
