It just looks so far away and you try to reach out and grab it but you can never do it, never do it.
And you want to squint and see if its that shadowy figure that you've waited half your life to see, but no, not as you sing "Sun King" in your head and try to pretend you are in a dream. There is no figment of your imagination, only the driveway of your neighbor.
Things like that don't happen around here, not ever. Not ever.
Misty sounds like the name of a pornstar. That kind of ruins the romance, doesn't it?
But yet we all hold mist in our hearts, letting it collect into droplets and drip down slowly, making our toes cold. Drip, drip, drip, drip.
I'm not saying romance is dead. It's only becoming heavy and dropping to the asphalt, in fat drops.
