Wishful

Let me dream about faraway places
lost in the recesses of my mind, like wonderland on crack.  
We’ll swap numbers and never call, staring at our phones
like they’ve the ability to read minds and pull and pool our thoughts
back into some semblance of communication.  
 
I’ll be some new age Nancy Drew and you can be  
well… whoever you want to be.  
I’ll chase you, you’ll chase me and we’ll get nowhere at all.  
Just like old times, when you told me how you’d kiss me
and I told you I’m gay. And just like that, we weren’t over
with the should-could-and-would-have been’s.  
None of it mattered, because love conquered desperate rationales.  
 
Grand gestures stood like superheroes atop burning buildings
and we lit ourselves on fire until we were nothing but angry ashes.  
 
One year later and I’m still dreaming of faraway places
imaginary text messages, and kissing you under the pool table
like I’d ever had the chance, when your lips wandered off a long time ago  
to someone not gay and much more deserving of a straight man’s love.  
 
Everything from here on out  
is just wishful thinking.  
 
© Indie Adams 2012