(n)                
in·fi·del·i·ty /infiˈdelitē/*
I have a place where
I take the things that I
want to say, but mustn't
belt out loud.
You told me that
I wouldn't want the
world to hear the things
that scare me,
only because
you didn't want it
to be used
against
me.
I write down the
things that aren't
supposed to be in
my head, only
because you told me
that I shouldn't be
worrying about things
that aren't worth
it.
Since the first day
(middle of December, or
something like that)
you have been
taking care of me
even when I
told you not to
worry.
You threw around
kisses that
carried a sort of
incredible gravity.
Gave out
your signature
on papers that
also had mine.
(Oh honey, you gave me
the kind of love that
I've seen on the
television. What more
could I want?)
Although
even the most
sober entanglements
ask:
(Where are you?)

It was eight in the morning
when I woke up last,
the eighth time.
The thoughts pondering
along my thought stream
had been counting the
very things that
could have had the power
to wake me up.

One: Did I forget to lock the door?
Two: Maybe I forgot to turn off the stove.
Three: Did I say "goodnight" to you?
Four: Did you...never mind
Five: I'm kind of missing you right now.
Six: It's cold, where did my warmth go?
Seven: You're not here.
Eight: Your ******* zodiac sign.

Eight things that formed my brain into
the complex shape of an
octagon with little or no struggle.

Though the eighth thought
had given me all I've needed,
all I lacked,
and all I wish I never had.
But everything I never
want to let go.

Your ******* zodiac sign
you're *******
beautiful
on that scale from one to twelve.