Straight-laced: Practice Makes Perfect.

I keep telling myself to use this time

to become the person I want to be

when I meet you.

Reading books and books and books—

self-help, pop-culture favorites, psychology,

history, classics, obscure indie loves—

in case that’s what you’re into.

Music too, all the genres.

Maybe I can bewitch you

with the mind I’m building.

Self-discipline. Denial.

Becoming that stoic bedrock

you can latch onto.

I could be working out, crafting

a body that might catch your eye.

I should use this time to get better

for you.

But right now, I’m just sad that I’m waiting,

that I’ve neither met nor confirmed

you’re even real

in this web of possibilities.

Tonight I cry in the shower,

mourning a perfectly fine life—

perfectly fine because I made it that way.

Tomorrow, I’ll tie myself up tight

in Boy Scout knots—

square, clove hitch, alpine butterfly—

just to name a few,

and sew my patch back onto the vest I wear.

I’ll be an Eagle in a year.

Just give me enough time to study.

I know I’m getting better.

Cause these bouts used to last a week.

Now—

Just a few days.

Practice makes perfect.

Right?

Will you also be ready

when it's time to meet me?