Quixotic

What, exactly, am I to understand     about your behavior? There’s a desperation in your movement     that belies your grace as you scan the pub for your savior     with that smile-cemented face. My glance shifts to new perspectives,     discontent cycles anew when trying to seek meaning in the     cheery curve of your eye. I used to long to get to know you     before losing all reasons why. In a tight spiral, you slope     down to the bare ground, hooting with curses to quake     the isolation of the room. That auto-pilot of thought unsound     lingers beyond your mere gloom. Perhaps, if our age wasn’t so     cursed with convolution we’d find some way to share     more than just snappy patter or faint whispers of lush solutions,     taunting modes which don’t matter. Instead, I’ll watch from my distance,     scanning your weakened force. Somewhere within lies a dormant resolve     capable of vaulting you to distinction. I pray that substance paves a course     before you flirt with extinction.