I am, sneaking cheatingly through the streets, thinking about my head. It's descreating so much, it knows the score, and so do I. My forehead is frettering me with thoughts, maybe the cafe wasn't such a bad idea, turning around sure is not, maybe someone's around.
My brow is bucking, hammering, sweat on my skin, running down my temples, wetting nose and lips, directly down my chin to my neck. Heading through me, goosebumps on my arm's back up to my nape where skin and hair are making a desperate stand against winter's cold wind; itchy my Achilles' heel, my head is trembling.
It knows, trenching logic, affronting me with truth. It's asking things that no one wants to answer nor demand, it's giving responses to aggravating questions, giving me riddles to think about.
Making me believe in love, that's what it's doing, taxing me with romance.
Almost jots my cover, thinking only about love.
Which woman would find a liking in you?
O, how quick the masquerade would laid bare, yet too ill-conceived, resistance is too unsought, if anything. Joking and cheering, I would be clucked out with truth and despised.
Nah, who's so dainty of my dementia?
Stepping in, the head of most men upon entry is slightly tilted to the left. Turning around to close the door, my head is taunting me with appetite for booze and swells.
"Let me be, futile thing!", it's telling me and itself.
Ordering coffee, sitting down, picking up the newspaper, silencing my head, at least I hope so. But no ev'ry now and then it takes a chance, making me look away, peeking. I hectically try to get rid of the lump in my throat and dabble in fixing my eyes on the nearest article.
And this wonders me, the astonishment surprises me, noticing that my very own head has ensconced himself in my hand's palm and has made my fingers warm itself.
Now it's starring at a lady, fool!
It should pack it's stuff and leave.