slow

I am so slow, too slow to see myself seeing the strange way by which you paint your eye brows, dance your vocal chords as I miss your friends' outstretched hands prolonging stranger land as I think how stranger you delay to extend your arm only upon noticing me notice you. 

And I am still too slow to hold your hand longer, few milliseconds longer, few differences different, to how conscientious I am imagining, hoping you watching me five seconds before I am lost in your clothes flanking a story that makes me dumb like the undulations of muscles in your bare arms I am running imaginary hands, laying imaginary lips the first four seconds I laid cautionary eyes chasing them from chasing you.