You press your perceptions
of me into air-dry clay;
shall I count the ways?
I am proficient
(occasional higher level learning, you say;
but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, you say).
I am reserved parking
(easy to exit and others keep out, you say;
easy to drop off and pick up right away).
I am not temperature controlled
(a bob cat in heat when the moment strikes, you say;
but beneath all that fire’s an empty rib cage).
I am an isolated car seat
(ripped from the vehicle, tossed onto the street, you say;
more free stuff to ride in this great game of life, hey).
I am a work of heart
(a piece of work, for the start, you say;
I poke and you’re a deflated globe, you say).
I am ‘my world’
(your world, that is, you say;
you’ve only ever loved yourself, anyway).
You map your longing for me
like I’m a primary atlas;
so long, I’ve put it into practice.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe