Sometimes I feel like skipping. I won't, though. I won't because the people in this neighborhood know me by my mother, and my father, and my dogs, and I don't want them to know I'm anything but refined. dignified. old.

Sometimes I walk back home from the park with the kid who sleeps on my couch. Sometimes I win the game, and when I do I stuff the basketball into my shirt, and watch as the cars pass - the passenger's eyes glaring at me as harshly as the headlights.

Sometimes I want to walk to nowhere with a fellow nobody, and breathe in the intoxicating, uncharted lands. Sometimes I'm stuck here, though - wishing. hoping. waiting.

Sometimes I dream at night, and sometimes it involves her. Sometimes I wonder how I got her. Sometimes I wonder if I'm blessed, or lucky, or if this is all just another dream I made up.

Sometimes I push tacks into my thumbs, and sometimes the rings fall off of my fingers, and sometimes my collar bones get made fun of. Sometimes I feel isolated, and sometimes I feel welcomed, and sometimes I throw a fist full of crisp feathers into the wind.

Sometime I wonder why I'm existent, and sometimes I wonder why you're existent, and sometimes I just dig my teeth into my knees, and force myself a little more.

Sometimes I'm the problem's solution. Sometimes I'm the solution's problem.

Sometimes I'm me, and you, and her, and them.

Sometimes I'm here when I realize the grass is greener there.