13/30 late. (late is the title of the poem, though I understand I'm posting it a day late)

You sit there with that someone
and it's so late you start asking stupid questions
you don't even care to know the answer to like the Guinness
Book of World Records rolling off your tongue wearing
a cover that leans in quiet, whispers "I just want you to stay."
in italics like white noise conversation,
inside of a seashell washed ashore by first kisses ocean,
and you say with your eyes,

I heard this is exactly how it should sound.

So boring. We're stubborn as schoolchildren tempting the wallclocks
in our gaze for the bell
when we'll run out so reckless
that our backpacks of still-trying-to-forget
are slung off on the playground
and our lips grow into hands scraping
the bottoms of our pockets for
offerings to the ice cream truck.

We'll read a line or three
from the other's printing press,
journalist curious.
My fingers dance on typewriter keys daily,
I'll unlearn the moves they've taught pages so every word
rides back up to the source before we humans knew how
to write this stuff down.
Sometimes our ears don't read more than shuffling pages,
but for the moment ,
it's everything we've been wanting to hear.

But before lips fingers trace
printed playground geography,
we have to pull them out of
our seashell lungs.
So I'm sorry if my questions
sound stupid. It's just that
I want you to stay.