You think chemistry is quashable but you would think that. Qualifications for you are celebrity signature impersonations.
My impressions were gradual and I didn’t vomit you in the first three hours so you stuck and worked me off-kilter, or on to it. I’m torn between calling you legal and occult.
I heard a lot of Ouija board stories when I was small and my sister’s had a love/hate relationship with ghosts since she saw Casper and my Dad said he saw an old man at the end of his bed that disappeared with the light on.
At lunch, next day, he knew it was Bane.
Unexplored seconds and you write my dating profile because you observe better than other people, including girls whose bedrooms I sat in weekday nights, high school years. Difference now is, I don’t share easily, reveal crushes, potentials, because others claim first, and I’m not an Olympic speed, a rower, or an aging-slowly star with material and poisons capable of slowing time until it’s claspable and I lose you and we lose and we’re a well-worn dance we’ve watched on TV since 1982, more rehearsed than Communion we only ever got head pats, or blessed for, when all we want is bread.