i can see the way you don’t look at me.
the way you keep your head down,
eyes trained on your phone,
yet still choose to sit next to me
with an excuse you are far too clever to give.
the practiced ignorance.
the press of your thigh against mine.
we aimlessly scroll, chuckling to ourselves;
but i am not really looking,
too preoccupied with closing the
distance between us.
i can see the way you talk
about one or the other–
the height, the nose,
the likes and dislikes,
how she hangs onto every word,
how she calls you late at night,
the way they are everything
i am not,
and yet you speak to me,
like i am the only one in the room.
you make me feel stupid
for being there. and i
make myself feel worse
for having hope in the first place.
because that is the issue, isn’t it?
the cruel joke my own heart plays on me:
to analyze every word, every
thought, to seeing meaning in places
where none ever lived.
and how disappointing it is
to continue this waltz,
dancing in circles around each other,
as we have for years.
spinning,
spiraling,
revolving,
just as the earth arcs and whorls
around the heavy heat of the sun,
the inescapable pull of gravity
enticing her with need,
and endless possibilities,
forever held at a distance.
an almost, always.