You are pretty: I am intimidated.
You are funny: I am nervous.
You are self-assured: I am stiff.
You are passionate: I am unyielding.
You are getting warmer.
Or, truthfully, I am less cold.
I am opening.
I am a flower and you are the sun
and things long thought broken
knit themselves together in your warmth
while I pull apart and loosen.
I hate you.
I hate what you say, what you do, what you are
and I love, love, love every second of you
as I drink your presence,
your taste, your smell,
surrounding and intoxicating,
overpowering and never ending
and I want you when you’re not here
and I want you gone when you are
and they would say that we stand on the knifes edge
but I know I have fallen
and can only hope you are falling with me.
I am alert, awake, aware
of so much more to come
and filled with dread that it will not find it’s way
and I long to be alone and silent
even as I crave your white noise,
your laughter, your ecstatic cries
that fill my head and I am drowning, drowning, drowning.
You are gone by morning.
I know why but I rage, I blame you
for not staying, not trying,
for not being forgiving,
for packing in the night and leaving with no light
for me to see your face again,
for giving up or tripping up or messing up
or any way I can turn this onto you
to absolve myself of knowing
that you were gone by morning
but I had been gone all night.
She is pretty: I am hurting.
She is funny: I am heartbroken.
She is self assured: I am still healing.
She is passionate: I am unyielding.
Oh but she is warm, so warm
in a way I like to pretend you never were
even though it is your face I see
when she works her tongue for my pleasure,
even though it is your name I chant
when she is screaming mine
and clutching at me, clawing for me
trying to bring me closer to her,
to fill the gap I keep you in,
to push you out of the space which surrounds us
but I am unyielding.
It is me who leaves this time,
angry at her for things I can’t explain to her,
angry at her for things you did
and for not doing things you did,
for not being you when I needed her to be,
for all the things I can’t be angry at myself for
and angry at her for allowing herself to be wasted.
I am unyielding.
I am stiff and I am nervous
and I am hurting and I am angry
and I am cold and I am unloved.
I am unloving.
But oh, she is pretty and warm
and I am…
I am thinking of you.