A girl sat alone,
Counting the raindrops
To occupy her mind.
Hungry, but too pensive
To do anything about it.
On the windowsill,
She saw two little ants,
But not as she had seen them before.
One of the ants was carrying the other
Across the trickles of water.
Where they were going,
Only the pair knew.
She pondered what must be so great,
That the one ant should ford
Sprawling, frigid rivers
With another on its back.
It would have been easy to smash them,
To free them from their struggle,
But her hands wouldn't move.
She looked closer, and realized
That the ant on top was dead.
The carrier crawled along, unfazed.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen.
Thanks for being such a great friend.
No, really, I mean it.
Thanks for being so great
That I spend all my days off
And never see you.
Even though I took them off
To see you.
Thanks for watching football games
For six hours after they're over,
Always too busy to hang out.
Always too busy to listen.
Always too busy
To tell me you're too busy.
I wouldn't want to waste your time.
Thanks for going out to dinner
Without ever inviting me.
You didn't think I wanted to go,
That's very considerate.
I must be special.
Thanks for never calling me back,
Or even a single message
To say you can't show up.
Saving my phone battery,
That's very kind of you.
Thanks for being somewhere else
When you told me you were free.
I didn't make plans or anything,
No harm done.
But most of all,
Thanks for showing me
How important I am
By ignoring me
For weeks at a time.
Same time next week, right?
I know not the color of your eyes,
But I know what is in them.
I know how they analyze,
Picking apart every mundane asset
Of a universe we find bewitching;
How they dance with understanding,
Reflecting a life most dedicated
To the art of knowing more.
And I know how they fear,
With cautious, scrutinizing movements
Borne of trust and the betrayal that took it;
Eyes I know will look to mine
And beg this world to see the same—
That I would never leave.
I know not the sound of your voice,
But I know what it speaks.
I know how it speaks control,
With the smooth, methodical candor
Of a sentence well thought-out;
A voice with many thousand days
Of consideration and control,
Experiments in communication.
And I know how it speaks of melancholy,
Of ages spent in ageless wait
For one that may not be;
That chronic touch of cynicism
Brought by ancient mechanism,
A defense by sarcasm.
I know so little of you,
And yet I know enough.
So though I may not know your face
When first I pass you by,
Just look in my direction long
That I may catch your eye.
And though I may not hear your voice
When first you call my name,
Just speak aloud, as to yourself:
I'll hear you all the same.
And though we may not know at first
When we have finally met,
Keep watch for symptoms well-rehearsed
And I will find you yet.
Perhaps for the last time,
I have fallen in love.
Does it betray me a fool
To so often fall blindly
For women I imagine
To match my ideal?
Perhaps it is not women,
But the same woman,
Over and over,
Since I first saw her
Occupying the same space
As some hapless girl
I had to have.
Perhaps it is desperation
Taking hold of a strange man
That finds little value
Without a symbol of idolatry
In the absence of religion.
Perhaps it is fear
In the shadow of absence,
As our most primal instinct
Is to find another
To weather our strange existence
Perhaps I merely wish
That the fits of longing would stop.
At least long enough
To get some work done.
Yet least likely of all,
And most shamefully,
Perhaps I just fell in love
With another pretty smile
With a brain to back it up.
Perhaps that is not so wrong,
Save for the volume
With which it occurs.
She does have lovely eyes.
I've narrowed it to two occasions
When you wrest control
Of my thoughts from me.
Yes, two moments
When I think of you:
When I am asleep,
And when I'm awake.
I'm not very good at this.
Thumping hiding in my chest,
Out of reach;
Fingers hot with sweat and fear,
Clenched in hope;
Pins and needles for a face,
I tell you I love you.
You toss dark curls in the sun
And grace the air with feather timbre:
"I know," you laugh, as to a child,
And wander off like nothing's changed.
Every single time.
Those first careful drops on an evening bluster,
Unknown to their perspectives of fate.
The front-lines of battle-worn soldiers muster;
The harbingers of ever-shall-be can't wait.
A gunmetal mist blocks the sun's vain parleys -
Such negotiation a defeat in disguise.
The drums of war crackle in periphery stays:
The battleground ripens - the war compromise.
Do drops such as these know their purpose in falling?
Do they fall, truth obscured, at the whim of the eve?
If they knew they were pages to forces appalling,
Would they drop so steady, or perhaps stop to grieve?
But none of those questions hold much rhyme or lustre
To those first careless drops on an evening bluster.