It is empirically clear that no amount of frozen haired, wild armed, heavy volumed, Paul Simon morning bike drumming will leave me with the transcendent feeling of strong legged, proud cheeked confidence with which I used to awaken under the green leafy sunlight of Chicago.
When my leg swings over the top bar and my keys clamour at the lock under this building's towering dimness, my smile is fragile, my thighs uncertain, and my mittened fingers hesitant in the icy winter wind.
The big open heart in my chest would prefer to blame this phenomenon on the lack of windows in my office, on the fluorescent hum incessantly inoculating the sterile air on my skin. But, I can't shake the dream that you'll appear at my bedroom door without warning. I involuntarily elaborate a fiction in which you have the desire to neglect your myriad responsibilities and grasp the moment to seek out my skin instead... and I wake up fragile, certain of nothing except that you would never do such a thing.
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