Maybe you’re cute and maybe my doubts wither when I hear you sing…standing across a packed club as you belted out on Saturday, everytime you caught my eye it felt as though a Halloween devil was dripping ice water down my spine. But sometimes that devil needs brushing off the shoulder because the angel speaks sense. Cruel, cold sense.
You never ask questions. I write, type and talk…tie myself in knots, wanting to impress, elicit a response…it feels as though I do all the running and you lean back in your shadowy corner of wherever, peering beneath the brim of your cuban cap.  What do you want me to do?
Enough.