As soon as it's time to stop thinking,
I wonder the most,
upon how much I've spent this evening,
how much wasted,
how my roommates never do the dishes and steal my daily vitamins,
while fooling myself to sleep,
I am so helplessly confined to such pettiness.
Then I see these fingers,
nails that need clipping,
my glance shifting past my notebook at the forest surrounding my outty,
and wonder,
if the next woman to see me without shirt would prefer a clean shaven chest,
and wonder,
whether I would prefer a woman who would prefer a clean shaven chest,
cause I like the confidence of a woman with hair in her armpits,
to match mine,
or make me more comfortable with all of these petty things
that make me feel so undesirable.
So I scanned the room and asked for the number of the girl
in the demin skirt, black t-shirt, and jogging shoes,
the perfect balance between effort and comfort,
now I can pretend as if her only aim tonight was to make me comfortable
with the comfort she has in her own presence.
I wear insecurities in the back of my throat when I talk to her,
dumbfounded as to what happened to any prior strategy that had been devised,
choking to death on such simple words that flowed so smoothly
in the mental rehersal I performed just movements before the actual debut.
But she appreciates the effort,
or at least takes pity on me and offers me seven numbers and an area code,
offering her hope that I can reassure,
what she would call,
her vain attempt to carry confidence in a demin skirt and jogging shoes.
Was not in vain and instead, generously rewarded with my imperfect gesture of imperfection,
for I would never be so comfortable as to not seek comfort from her.
I dial, and unfortunately it rings,
I'm praying for answering machines,
I hear a voice and I swallow a lump in my throat,
around a jagged piece of pride as painful as a sharp torilla chip,
but she accepts my bumbling and I say goodnight and smile on the phone,
goodnight to petty thoughts for now,
to dream of simple words and great difficulties with them.
