Lacking the Nerve

I’m in my backyard,
smoking a Menthol.
6:30 in the morning,
and I haven’t yet slept.

I don’t quite know her.
Hell, we’ve never conversed.
Yet I wish she was out here
with me;
sharing the cold,
sharing her thoughts,
sharing her company.

We’d start a fire
and partake in its warmth,
in each other’s warmth.
It’d be simple,
mundane even.
But for those moments,
mundane would take on new meaning.

"The wood is really taking flame!"
"Yeah, I know.
Don’t get too close.
Those logs burn quick.
The embers shoot everywhere."

You’d smile back
at my words of caution,
getting ever closer
to the sparks none-the-less.
I’d smile myself.
So cute. So mundane.

After a while we’d go inside
and flip on the TV.
The Office, Blood Diamond,
some shitty B Horror flick…
I don’t care what’s on.
It’s out of focus;
in the periphery.

We could do whatever.
Sing off-key
to our favorite songs,
play nostalgic games,
like Super Mario World.
(I call Luigi!)
We could go out
for a round of
kick the kid with one shoe
(provided we find him).

It wouldn’t matter,
what we did,
or how we did it.
You’d be there,
sharing yourself with me.