I thought we would be done by now.

But I keep finding more of you
between the lines
and more of me
between the letters.

Well…
this is not good.

I really, really hoped
you would look worse,
smell worse,
sound worse,
feel worse,
kiss worse…

But you are perfect.
Which means
I have a problem.

You're a gifted writer.
Every word you write
flirts with me.

And there's not much
you can do about it—
except stop writing.

But then,
it will be your silence
flirting with me.

I thought I was happy
until I felt
a tear
slip down my cheek.

I wasn’t sad—
or at least, I didn’t feel so.
It was just something inside me,
letting out one last cry.

I think I'm falling for you—
I can feel the ache,
its every telltale sign.

I think I'm falling for you—
have needed to, wanted to,
since I can remember.

I think I'm falling for you—
for the idea of you
I couldn’t help but create.

I remember all of them.
Maybe because there only were a few.
Still, I would sacrifice one of them
—but no more—
and instead of love and sleep, the two most beautiful things,
I would soak up
the scent of the moment,
the depth of existence,
the essence of life,
disregarding the finitude of moments.
And I would etch every detail into my memory—
our bodies,
the room,
the sounds outside the window.
I would give my entire old age
for the chance to live forever in one night,
next to you,
in a time of love.

As long as you're here,
as long as this works in its own way,
I'll keep taking
the hits,
the sips,
the bites.

Because you're the kind of substance
that makes me want to write,
contemplate life,
and feel the ache.

There she was—
the only woman in a room of men.
She sat on the side
and looked around gently
as she taped her hands.

I tried not to look at her too often,
but she truly was
a rare sight, a relic of sorts.

She stole so many of my glances,
I couldn't help but feel guilty,
and only hoped I was
the only man in the room
from whom she took control.

Then it started.
And as we were forming pairs,
nobody picked her.
Nobody wanted to be
either the wolf who feasts
or the wolf who hurts.

And I wonder if she will ever understand
that it wasn't that she wasn't
good enough for us,
but that she was too good.

Some expressions are complex—
ingenious work of eyes and lips.
Can you guess the one
that has been with me forever?

It shifts and bends, serves many ends—
at times it lingers for a bit
before it flees,
but it always comes unbidden.

It shields me when I'm caught off guard,
deceives those who seek my tears.
It does so much and asks so little,
but above all—it contradicts.

I live my life with a flaming heart—
a condition not of body
but of mind.

It wants to spread its fire
to every curve and every curl
I desire.

I wanted to catch the air
and pet the stray on the street.
To cage a bird who wants
nothing but freedom.

What did I learn?

Air will leave the room you rush in,
cats don't trust hands,
and birds will only stay
as long as you feed them.

You finally got it.
The attention of those,
who never deserved yours.

It only cost you
a piece of your soul,
a shard of your heart,
and your nose.

Now the ones,
who will need you the most
will always wonder
if they belong
and if maybe
they should get one just like yours.

I think I'm cooked,
I feel the ache I longed for.
I'm restless, but I think
I got what I wanted.

I keep checking
and I keep thinking
about you and how you
might be thinking about me.

I don't think there's a future.
I don't think this will be
anything but the ache.
But I guess I never wanted more.