He's flitting before me, with a wide smile
On his straight, white teeth.
Reach out and touch him,
(I keep saying to myself!)
Don't let this one get away.
He lives off of coffee, cigarettes, and adrenaline.
He's an independent thinker
A doer, planner, seer.
He never turns his eyes out
At the mention of a crowd of people;
He greets everyone like an old friend,
And they sidle up to him, infinitesimally,
Clawing at the confidence he secretes
Like a formless, sourceless candy.
He's flitting before me, and if I reach out
I can almost touch the whispery tips
Of his artful, sophisticated scarf.
Reach out and touch him.
Sink back into the mud, and wait for him again.
Reach out and touch him.