Pit pat—’longside my back throughout my bones and it lands—splat.
Pit pat—wanting and waiting, truly creating the things that I behold and feel within me speaking, creaking. Tip-toe round the truth, bend what’s real and take up a spot next to me in the booth. For I have saved room for thee as though you knew me. But quick! Take haste to find what little you can, for when you find the man on the moon, you’ll find the real man.
Pit pat—delusionally stating, anticipatorily waiting. Find me out back if you can see me dating—or mating. Yet there are those who would have me raving, pit pat, and tied to the truth and drug out back, pit pat, and found and tried, pit pat. Splat.