it’s an undercurrent
simmering below the simple gestures
stares that linger a bit too long
touches with no apparent reason
odd questions just to hear my voice
i feel it.
the undercurrent of your attention
slow yet there
small but rising
i’m not stupid.
i know it’s nothing.
the undercurrent is scented with doubt.
as always.
doubt, curiosity, estrangement
just a simple **** on my shoulder.
it may wash away or it may grow.
i don’t know if it will overflow.

i won’t wait for years.
(but i will keep my eyes on you)