There are no muttering whispers of hate or fear or sadness, guilt or regret fluttering into my ears (yet) - as romantic as that may have sounded to you
I am not ignorant to the fact that my restless habits draw attention to me with drawn conclusions ...and you outdrew me
Sadly there are more than walls that drift into my line of sight to my chagrin I find myself spied by those with more curiosity than any sane person knows
(There is some overbearing self-entitlement that accompanies the search for a sign of light in the face of another)
When I make eye contact, it is simply to feel grounded in reality and I bet I project this desperation unwaveringly when my eyes flicker briefly toward those of a stranger
They may sense something mysterious in my shiftiness, though I do not suffer from the ennui that great artists are compelled to quell with narcotics
Nevertheless folks wonder what my great art could be what I am in touch with that renders me unable to be at peace with the world, as they are
So far I am no great artist - narcotics would thus drive me further from peace - instead I'm a poor scientist synthesizing faulty chemicals
All these molecules my body loves to make keep me scanning the surroundings I hurl my horrible hormones at obsessively
This alone causes me little grief I've learned to I live with it - in my own way I've grown detail-oriented, though so have noticed where some issues develop
The real problem arises in that unlike other harmless strangers with their pleasant perfumes and caring colognes the charmless hormones I assault the world with are compromised like all of my chemicals which (like you) have come to be this way simply by my being alive
So along comes a compassionate soul glimpsed through the eyes of a passionate fool wishing to uncover what bothers me to discover a potential lover or to learn what leaves me turning from them
Some end up pursuing a friendship or become determined to prompt a long stare for the deep longing that should come with it brave the frigid winter or save this timid author?
Not wishing to hurt or offend them I spend time in their company yet fail at the delivery of what should have been progress toward shared shivering feelings experiences with meaning
They leave me, seething
No, I hear less and less voices it's a wordless taunting that haunts me
It's the sound of someone behind me shuffling into a jacket as if we have just caught up over coffee and said all we could
If I turn toward the sound, it's gone there is nothing there and if I don't, I hear the wretched entirety of it
Arm into sleeve jacket over shoulders across the back and the next arm slides in Zip, snap That's that
I've felt compelled to face the departing presence for so long as if to clear my throat and acknowledge or protest its inevitable departure but it leaves anyway (...you did)