My foot taps out every ticking second on the clock.
Popcorn rattles off machine gun fire behind the counter.
Los Angeles is roaring quietly in the background.

It’s 5:27, and any moment now you’ll walk in.
You’ll carry with you a baseball cap,
a pack of microwaveable Kraft mac ’n cheese,
and the weight of a year and a half in dissolution.

I have been leaking sweat since 1:34,
and I think of how this building
has told the stories of lightsabers and Lion Kings,
hobbits and hobgoblins, royals and romances.

You part the glass seas, but all I notice are
gazebos with Christmas lights, seaside sandwiches,
and steely eyes.

And as I listen to the rumble of overdone proposal scenes,
Decepticons, and Melissa McCarthy’s gunshots,
I realize our story was never meant for the big screen.