In pit-pattered steps I walked along
down the the mini-street where you really live
Not really expecting to find you
(not after the exodus that spring so raucously engenders)
but still my pulse quickened on arriving to your door,
blood pounding in ears like a fierce stampede of quadrupeds.
As I hid quietly among the comics that so dearly cling to the walls outside your office
(tiny trilobites languishing on the sides of an algaed aquarium)
I realized with a wave of trepidation
(splattered notes on a rusted trombone)
That you really were home: your computers buzzing out steady hums of computations.
You were not there, you were somewhere singing hymns of speciation diversification
(a lonely sermon on this forgotten mount)
A tremor filled me, as always when I see your sun-spangled room.
I crouch near the wall and peep inside, catching an echo of your voice
I debate in syncopated splashes if I should wait for you,
but amidst the cacophony of my fears
(imagined doubts emitted from a leery subconscious)
drive me down the staircase.
In pit-pattered steps I walked along.
Away from the street where you really live
wondering why I feel this endless trepidation
these vivid imaginations of alternate realities where your vacillation
between hating me and loving me is actual quotation
And not just pretensed thoughts from a mind ravaged by cultural starvation.
Why do I fear you, when your voice
rich golden notes that not even honey could match
Has said to me things sweeter than the amorous confessions of any lover?
Why do I still fear you, dear,
when every-time I peep around the corner
(on the mini-street where you really live)
you glance up at me
(eyes roaring searchlights in the taupe tan of your skin)
and simply, softly, smile?