Moonbeam EpiphaniesYou sit on the windowsill of a stranger
who breathes in an unfamiliar rhythm
that doesn't sync up with anything at all.
You're tuned into everything off-beat;
the wrong radio frequency,
but a broken dial.
You wish you could be walking outside,
the place where you would wish you were sitting right here.
Because restlessness, ironically,
is attached to you in one steady place,
but you can't figure out where.
Like a phantom itch,
impossible to satisfy.
Wanderlust, minus the desire;
you don't know what the hell else to do.
If you're still,
it all settles in;
everything you can't face
will prove that it's here to stay.
So you run,