I bore my soul to the audience,
but my soul could not be bored,
it’s constantly looking for the next great thing,
joy in the little things.
Taken a bus to Astoria,
listened to the chatter of those with lives,
spent the weekend with a dear friend,
and back again, the night before work.

And I’m consuming,
eavesdropping on conversations like 
cookies stolen from the jar,
the fact that the knowledge isn’t freely given
makes it all the more delicious.

And I’m watching,
people go by, I’ll take note of their human habits and alien behaviors.
I know nothing of life— yet.
And yet, 
from wiping tears,
from inhaling secondhand smoke,
from feeling lonely in a crowd and 
popular in an empty room,
I’d like to think I have some idea of
what it means to live.