I apologize
For all the times
I wring my hands
In worry
And ask you
What I have done
Wrong, with eyes
Reddened and blurry
I seem to lack
The skill to see
The truth from these
Illusions,
Entrammled in
The mire of
My agonized
Delusions.

The holidays masquerade as
simple and sweet,
the affectionate smell
of freshly baked cookies,
melted chocolate and
a minty breeze,
The fantasy of something white,
and lights, lights
so many lights.

But up close it's
nothing more than
tension, poorly masked
by contrived small talk.
No politics.
No religion.
And don't talk about anything
that matters.
Guilt at the pit of my stomach,
in a small room
with too many people,
too many inauthentically polite people.
And a clock,
A clock that won't stop ticking
for just a moment,
to let me breathe.

She throws her "I love you's"
out in the world like
it's a simple hello.
Often and careless like
gum on the sidewalk.
She mutters them
with every goodbye
as I shuffle in my seat.
"I.." "you too."
I keep my "I love you's"
hidden in my jacket pocket,
even when I mean it
and she doesn't.
They're locked behind stammers
and stutters,
and strange insecurities.
I keep my "I love you's,"
So few.

These days
are lying in bed
until the feeling passes,
walking with you,
half listening,
constantly searching
for a moment
I can ******,
for a chance to
tell you,
to try to tell you.

These days
are using
earbuds and novels
like an invisibility cloak,
or rather an attempt
to drown it all out.

These days
I'd rather be
alone in a group.

These days
I cling to your
every word
and I apologize
for all of mine.

These days
I don't know
what I want
or who I am
but I'm sorry.

They tell me to write about love,
but I'm not sure I know
what that is.

Is it the warm feeling,
the soft sigh listening to
the smooth sounds of Sinatra,
or is it the insane laughter,
the inability to wipe the smile
from my face,
when I'm with you.
Is it the in between moments,
just noticing,
noticing the quiet, lovely things,
the silence that isn't
all that silent

Maybe, but

It surely isn't the
feeling of home or
the prayers to God,
or the shouts of rage,
the obligations,
or the "have-to's"

If its love because
it's supposed to be,
because you should,
then I don't want it.
I don't want that "love"