I see it up there watching me like a painting in a museum. Following me down the sidewalk, under construction, gravel and packed tan dirt dusting my new loafers. It's dark out and it's big and it's dolloped in the sky nearly full, and it gets me thinking.
I take out my phone, scroll to your name, hover dangerously close. Sometimes I swear my skin doesn't even touch the screen and it still goes, it might do it now, and what a time for it to happen. It's too late and I'm too foolish and I can search when I get home. It looks full though. But maybe it will be full tomorrow. Waxing or waning or who knows what.
It happened again, it always does. Practice something enough and eventually you'll get good at it. Well, I'm good at falling for unavailable girls. Someone call Gladwell and tell him I put my ten thousand hours in. Someone get me on a talk show as an expert. Someone put me in Webster's under dope.
It doesn't bother me anymore. Used to, but can't see a point in it. I could sit and whine and complain about them and me and why do I do and say the things I've done and said. Maybe I should, maybe that's growth. Growing's painful, though. I'm all right with being a stunted, love-filled, painless old man. I'll get mine eventually. Until that time, I've got plenty of laughing to do.
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