Blow

like a drug or secret goings on in the back seat front seat left side brain a blinking light, an idea almost caught, a kite so far high that God might trip or become annoyed at it's presence like a fly, an incessant whisper just out of reach

a dream of bad behavior, murmurs from inside the glass, your reflection the only clue of life, you can be smudged and unbeautiful and someone still might pack you under his arm and take  you home

the sweetest blow to my ego is watching you care for the space around you, the things that breathe your air, your hands moving with gentle authority to accomplish the checks on your list and the realization that i may just be there until the line comes, drawn through my existence