I miss you.
The words cut thin, into
what is merely
the tip of this iceberg of hurt.

I stare blankly at the message box,
agonising over the three words...
untyped,
and as yet,
unsaid.
They are so much truer than the ones
already handing there, on the internets
metaphorical hook:
clique,
calculated,
unneeded and without emotional depth.

"Hey, how are you?"

The words are practically part of the set
of desperate messages I have
wanted to send you,
which would surely have rendered me
wholly unattractive to you.

You make me feel as desirable as poo.

No replies, mixed with affectionate goodbyes,
the sighs you make are surely lies,
when you say that you want to see me.

I'm feeling used, my good nature abused
of it's inability to feel suspicion
over your rendition of first loves
broad script.
Yet I leave my sense behind your
lips
which are locked with the key of
my obligingness.
My wish to try to humanise your
cockiness.

I sometimes wish you'd pay more attention
to the descent of me into madness.

This bewitching and beguiling madness,
so unlike the alternative.

The madness in the way you bridge the
gap between us,
an enthusiastic run of fun, and longing
for me.

The madness in the way you seem to
see me.
A sensual creature of beauty, perhaps
my blindness was from the serenity I
seemed grasp from your gaze.
You don't see me, but I'd be lying if
I didn't wish for that to be what I
am to thee.  

You leave me walking around in a daze.

I don't know whether that's a good or a bad thing,
but I know that all you have to do is ring
and I'm there,
I swear I am despicable as I seem.
Because, honestly, I still don't dare dream
that you may wish for this,
something other than my
'heatmaking' kiss.

I hope I can be brave enough to miss you.

But I don't think I can be just yet,
I'm not exactly playing hard to get.  

*enter