i'm in a daze,
with all things simultaneously happening,
and not,
and, as my chest exhales its harsh condition,
we both know it's up to me,
no more.

the ball in her court,
her proverbial time is anything but up;
it pains me so sweetly to know,
that i, the weak romantic,
would wait for ages,
or at least until the age was up,
and i, with renewed vigor,
sought a new home for my needy lips.

the wall of flesh and bone stands upright,
blocking the way which,
in all natural beauty,
our hands would clasp and fuse,
into a glorious pile of flesh,
a holy collection of bones,
an infinite matrix of perfectly matching atoms.

as i sit here,
desperate for her warm gaze and her fleeting touch,
instead i settle for cold words on pages,
written about people who have,
for all intents and purposes,
figured out the complex network,
of loves and lusts and loves,
or, at the very least, have shut their urges,
down,

down, we descend,
will she follow me into this?
because, despite the face of stone,
i am nothing but straw, aflame,
held fast by water-weary clay,
a David of sorts, a Thinker,
a monument to humanity,
but most of all, to its flaws.

she don't think straight,
he can't see straight,
i don't think he...
i don't think i...
can do it on my own.