I am wide eyed;
Attentive and glittering and eager.
Consumed
By your incessant stream of enlightened expression.

Your eyes,
Enigmatically, agressively determined,
Seek constant, ruthless contact with mine.

I  constrict, I turn away
From the acute awareness of my inadequacy.
Of my comparatively weak mind,
Eclipsed by your emphatic,
Evocative words which lead
Me deeper, deeper into the black, unfamiliar,
Imbalanced analysis wherein you thrive.
Elevated, blinded, confounded by your eloquence.

But you are only beauty and truth and goodness and power.

And even in my stunned state of disordered mediocrity,
This I understand with irrevocable clarity.

I never wrote about you.

I wrote about almost everyone else.
But never you.
Because when I tried
It always came out reserved, like steel
The tone a physician uses
When explaining
That a loved one is dead.

That's what this feels like.
It feels like you're dead.
And now I can't tell
If I'm writing this to bring
You back to life,
Or me.

I don’t want to apologize.
Like I have in the past
For coming close to a breaking point with you
Where I almost speak my mind
But refuse to do so, realizing that if I acknowledge
The shallowness of this relationship
I will never be able to return to this place
Of blissful ignorance
Where we float by, month after month
You, happy, and I happy enough
As long as I choose not to think.

Mundanity poisons our minds
And threatens to keep us sedated
In our blissful ignorance
Because that’s exactly what
This has become to you and I.
A place of familiarity,
Which offers no outlet for expansion.

We have limited this love
To a mere coexistence
Where we smile and laugh
Enjoying the ease of life and each other’s presence
And if that is not somehow wrong,
Why do I feel so empty?