i hope my voice gets through, sometimes
in the haze of faces without names
because i know what it seems like
and i know what you think--
how could i not?--
when i watch as closely as i ever can,
only taking time to sleep,
while every other moment is spent
in awe of you.
there are others and they're right,
about what i'm thinking--
they have to know, they're me after all--
and i know what i feel
may not be love
(a familiar feeling, never bearing fruit)
but i was hoping so hard
that we could pick the blossoms
from its branches,
and drink its nectar like ambrosia
even if we aren't gods--
(hell, i don't even know what to call myself)--
but cupid is a cruel master,
stabbing and shooting through the roots
of where i'd made my home
amongst dead leaves
and wilted flowers.
but despite that,
you're here
and i find myself hoping, one more foolish time,
for this old, frail tree
to bloom

(i sleep with one eye open
when i sleep next to you)