It's 12am and you're not here.
I don't think you ever will be.

I am a small collection of do's and don'ts.
I am way too fickle for you, I'm sorry.
But perhaps you were so secure that
I could sit here and worry and you might
sit there and read your paper, and sigh.

I don't think you'd really understand,
why I do what I do, or say what I say.
You couldn't possibly understand.

I don't understand either.

I know you care for me, maybe,
more than I care for you. But,
sometimes I think I care more deeply,
while you seem to care more completely.

Does that make sense? No.
No, I don't make sense.
But while you say that
you love me,
I am too busy
loving you.