I search, I scrounge for a signal that says
‘hey,’ but you send off nothing but off-waves.
Tip toe meters away in a dress with leggings
far removed, you can’t help but ignore
my ‘whatever stance’ as I take the night in,
fog and all. Once it was okay to talk back
to you, but now it feels like there is some sort
of toll or fee to keep the books. Admit mediocrity.
My affection is too clear. Better fog it up.
My dear, stop.