Tipping, tapping, my fingertips on the keyboard, bashing away at another idea before it disappears with all the rest of them, attempting to contain it, to put it in a cage and tame it, to release it before it chokes me.  My nails on the chalkboard of your spine, with each caress you grit your teeth and hate me a little bit more for the way I make you feel, crazy is the word you use and I know it's right, but I'm not the only one when you keep coming back to me again, and again.  Metronomes in a house on the coast, nobody lives here but they still click-click-click to a rhythm nobody notices, to a pattern nobody can forget, to the sound of the ocean rising and swelling as we sit with our feet hanging over the side of the dock, pretending we're setting sail somewhere far from here.  My hands, together, apart, together, apart, your lips pressed against mine as I break into a fit of laughter and find myself spinning in circles to the music, my heart dictating my feet as they move to the beat of the drum, my eyes closed in hopes of finding trust in each and every body in the room, so close enough to know you're still here but too far to reach out and grab when I need somebody to dance with.  Tipping, tapping, forever swaying to the beat of my own drum.  You can call me crazy, I can call you an addict, we can pretend nothing matters and lay out this blanket, pinching the stars between our fingers and living like there's no other beat but the beat of the present moment.