The drawn anticipation
tip-toeing on the tip of my tongue
I can taste scintillating titillation
of action
of resolve

Slipping slowly into this
vastly unorganized state
of solace and  servitude

Bound by the beautifully ironic
Brush of fate that has brought me
to you

The luscious laments you utter
so lovingly
lap at my conscience
like a lap dog in the life of luxury
oblivious to anyone else's needs
but its own
as I languish the morsels lain on the
cold, wet floor

Freezing as my heart flutters
feverishly to fight the frivolous
attempts to win back the love
that frightens me now

Never doubting,
Nor noticing the imperfections
that nag at the niceties performed
eloquently in your presence

Putting my progress
on hold, while I become
less and less patient
still trying to understand
why you're still with her...

and I'm still here.
Loving you.