When I die,
I want my cheeks to be sore from smiling
and to have a six pack from laughing too hard for too long.
I can't sleep.
My exhalations appear to blow into hearts like some love-lorn cartoon character.
My heart beats faster than the rhythm of my lungs; it's skipping!
Not skipping as though my heart missed a beat like a heart attack, but,
like that of the songbird doowap the sax of a swing quartet plays when in the spotlight.
Could this be...a crush?
Which is nonsense since my heart's acted nothing beyond the likes of a refrigerator's rhythmic hums for years.
Life is in mid-Spring and its bursting flowers demand to get busy with the bees.
Happy Independence Day, America.
//edit 7-11-09: I fail at courtship. Darn.
//edit 7-14-09: I guess not... sort of...
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