But it won’t last this dancing lark, we’ll have to give in at some point.
Maybe, when that runs out, we'll bolt like outcasts on a quick coffee run,
the sum of all the wrong parts looking for a grande fix in the signed latte cups of
keep us awake until the hootenanny is over,
’til we’ve finally grownup not slept for weeks because we’re thinking back to the last good time we had,
that streak of good luck.
I pass the blame to staring into periphery,
into stratospheric geography, thin blue line of our own history,
the false expectations of ourself,
deduced boiled down to the whimper of
an under-rehearsed soliloquy.
When you reach this height of nonchalance,
of stumbling onto summits without actually walking,
you’ll have torched every bridge your hands have touched,
given in to direction,
given it up for a sea-level slow dance with your ego
and you still don’t know the steps.