I don't know what I am doing here.
At least I feel safe, for the moment.
This seat is warm from my heat.
They are talking but I do not know them.
I am lost in my own exhausted world.
I never knew how well the word malaise fit me.
This private access to your face stays upon my lap.
It is feeding from the outlet in the wall.
I am only exacerbating my addiction.
I am addicted to your face.
Your beautiful, careless face.
It makes me sick, but I can't resist.
What am I doing here?
I'm uncomfortable within my own skin.
I'm itching for a way out from the inside.
Spiders are stepping gracefully upon my veins.
I'm swimming in nausea.
My eyes are shifting to and fro.
My head is the worst of it all.
These thoughts of you are eating me alive.
Because I'm not supposed to be
thinking of you.
I should be thinking
of him;
but when had we decided we
were in love?
He assumed, I'm sure.
I don't remember ever discussing it.
And you.
Look at you assuming things
just like he has.
But I don't care to tell you
you're wrong
because
you're right.
You remind me of that boy;
the one who smelled
sweet
in the summer time.
Immature and
out of sync --
I pretended to love
all that he was.
I hate to say it to myself,
but you remind me of him
sometimes.
The way you laugh and the way
you act
throws me into terrible
recollections
of days best forgotten.
And yet,
Here I am searching for
your blue eyes and
your left handed scribble
and
that mess of brown hair--
characteristics of every man
I've really loved--
and that scruff you call a beard,
black shirts and forced smiles.
I'm aching for your voice
mumbling incoherently into my hair;
aching for your arms,
warm and strong
and soporific; aching for
your lips
warm and sweet
pressed against mine,
as they were that one night
upon the dance floor:
quick and only once
but enough to make me cry.
I'm only making things
worse for myself.
I'm barely getting along in this house--
I've run out of things to do
and things to say
and things to think
to myself,
yet I sit still here
imitating your presence before
me, telling myself
it's only so long
until Saturday.