Is This Creepy?

Despite how jagged the odds may seem, of my memory making it past the last sip of your Captain Morgan, or even your first. Despite how unlikely it may be that the events of my heroics may reach home with you, safe and sound. Like my intentions, misplaced and disoriented, how far must I go before I can make the turn I missed? Or the turn that never was. I’m consumed by the thought that five seconds of your time is much closer to nothing than eternity, and it’s a shame that you won’t share any more than that. Doesn’t it surprise you to know that the moments you waste away in reflection of the mundane, I might find are the moments that take my breath away; like a speeding car caught between a red light and a ticket, I have nowhere to go and if I must I’m prepared to implode. I find serenity in things that never come to being and that makes it a little more complicated but slightly less incriminating than if you were to leave me dying of thirst. But I could tell you that the voice in my head is parched. Nothing might ever quench it the way you do. It’s been years since I’ve come to realize that silence is golden, how ironic is it that I must entertain you but can never really find the time to whisper quietly, to myself and no one else that you in fact, really are beautiful?

 

We’ve come to live in times that appreciate insincerity to unending lengths. Nothing seems to pacify the roving eyes and the inquisitive more than the perverse satisfaction of something, anything that isn’t nothing. How long has it been since the quiet were thrown in the same bag of rejects and misfits as the rest of them, the f*****s, the niggars and the shy? Isn’t it perhaps time now to realize that this bag of misfits we accumulate with evangelical conviction is in fact a larger population than the sinners who throw stones of penance at others? Surely God could not have condemned most of his children to the devil.

 

How is it that we so casually mention how nice guys finish last? Doesn’t it sometimes raise the question of where or what exactly the finish line is? So if I tell you darling that you, with the eyes that make choirs of angels sing are a beautiful creation of whatever God that may be, am I suggesting a questionable sexual orientation, moreso than the plain truth that you are beautiful to me? Isn’t it bad enough that the word ‘beautiful’ has been used so often, that now the word lacks any notion of beauty itself? Must we still continue to hunt down the messengers of love who find themselves incarcerated of committing clichés under the first act of the apocalypse?

 

So if I want to hear you sing, but I don’t know your name and I have the audacity to ask for it, tell me; is it cute or creepy?