The thing about it is

I wish that I could tame that hit of dopamine,

that pitter-patter stew of adrenaline-norepinephrine in my brain

because it makes me kinda sappy and it makes me kinda lame.

I really feel ya, ya know? You really make me feel something,

And I know you know you do,

But, damn, I can’t get these words out:

No doubt your presence obliterates the wire between my thoughts and my mouth

And I’m sort of sorry because I want to get to know the real you

But these sensations make up an entire zoo of emus charging

And I’m sort of sorry, but, in the beginning, I never can seem to out-canoe these fiends,

Not that emus canoe, but you know what I mean.

This body of mine is their safari and they are never, ever sorry.


Sometimes I end up sitting just there,

Upright, smile drawn like a little raggedy anne or andy

And instead of telling you who I am,

I’ll grill you into your chair with my utmost care,

curious fury just short of a telephoned questionnaire.

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