a poem, by Douglas Wadsworth
Rinsed, just a little bit squeezed
My body feels a little tighter,
Her hands twist the attention out of me.
You said you could, so read me out-loud in your thoughts and tell me what I'm doing here.
You, stop me from waiting,
Im waiting, a little more than should have, but just waiting only that.
I’m firing a gun through a window.
I can see the impression it leaves with you, but why would it?
Why because when have you ever seen that.
And what’s the point in a window…
I didn't know anything about luck until I met you.