Mad Illusionist

Why is it always her?
Her silence beckons when it should warn me off.
That fake smile makes me yearn,
Stronger than my own awkwardness.
When she yells, I read it as no need for formality.
When she’s not there, I don’t quite know
What to do with my shoulders.
After I see her, I turn up my music
To drown the shaming thoughts of
I shouldn’t. I can’t. I’m awful.
Then I think,
But I don’t. And I won’t.
And she doesn’t know.
In an hour I’ll feel like a stalker again,
Checking my inbox
On all six email accounts.
Even checking the spam,
(Though I’ve saved her addresses. All three.)
Hoping for a
I thought about you…
Or a
I forgot to mention!
And Mr. Hyde resurfaces.
Despite efforts to center my soul,
I look at her telephone number.
She’s far from here.
Not too far that I have an excuse to forget,
But just enough that it’s weird.
I imagine her day,
And how orbital I am,
Always hovering around her life,
But never actually entering it,
Or making a crater.
(Not for want of trying)
It seems too long for me to pine
Self-loathing spawning
With each day,
Month,
Years now.
How sad, they all must say.
Those who know, that is.
Which is more than you might think.
I push myself to seek solace,
Onto boys and girls that seem removed,
That seem figureheads.
Distractions, from what I’d rather do.
And that’s dream about her.
About you.
Yes, you.
It’s been about you for some time.
And I hate you for that.
I’ll always love the dream of you,
But right now,
Today,
When I blast the music from speakers
Twice the size,
I am Jekyll,
And I wonder where this time has gone,
What I’ve done,
And what I’ve created,
Inside my own, damn, mind.



CLR