I think of you like a daydream I didn’t ask for. I slip in and out of thoughts of you like a tide– a whole ocean coming about me, submersing me, cool and heady. A low fog is on the horizon, blurring reality and making light haloed like 1950s street-lamp love, all black and white and big screen. The movies ruined impressionable girls like me for womanhood; I’d watch them, eyes as big as apples and heart ready to burst cider, and I’d think love would casually stroll up like a tall drink water.
But reality is not Cary Grants and Greta Garbos and moonlit street corners. Thems the movies.
See where your foggy daydream of a thought took me? Keep your winks and your smiles like you’d keep a secret, so that I can retain what little control I possess of my cognitives.