There's a knot in my stomach,
I don't know what to do.
At this point, your silence is
deliberate.
Your absence is a message.
I want to reach out, but I can't.
No.
It must be you.

And so, I sit and I wait.
For what, I don't know.
A sign, a signal, some
semblance of your existence,
a peek of your thoughts, an
arrangement of your words into
a sentence to form some sort of
sentiment
towards me.

I don't know
what, exactly, I am waiting for.
And I worry, I worry so
I put pen to paper and paper
to fire to destroy my thoughts.
I obsess and I regret those things
I said; I'm sorry.

But **** it, you know?
I can't let you go unless
you let me go, so
I sit and imagine
you already have.
Talking to another, in love
with another, in bed with another.
It can't possibly be true, you wouldn't.
I know this.

But these thoughts torture me.
What does it all mean?
Where is the meaning?
Is this what you wanted?
It's fair, if you do.
I just want to know what
to do so I wait.
I wait.
While my thoughts turn my
stomach to knots.
I wait.