Still
Johanna M. Geiger
My breasts ache, but all I can do is press them into my body with both hands.
With both hands you held the door ajar
peeking slightly through the crack your eyes partially closed a sneaky sneaking
I am achy and tired, but all I can do is think of you.
Think of you, but not of the future I envisioned only one month ago.
Tomorrow I will browse through jewelry while imagining what ring you will give to me
I will wonder how many anniversaries we will survive through
and how much it will hurt when you
leave
I am obsessive and growing tired of my obsessive ways.
My preparedness is becoming more of a negative trait than a positive one.
Like my grandfather, I take things to an extreme. Except, instead of stockpiling
bags of Reece’s Peanut butter cups,
I am packing my belongings in boxes and bags years before an anticipated move.
I am afraid of everything. I think,
“If I unpack all this stuff now, I’ll only have to pack it again when I move.”
Move? I don’t have a date or a location in mind.
Still, 10 years from now, I might buy a house and all my things should be ready in boxes.
There are problems I am unable to fix
there are problems I am working on. Still….. still….. still…. this is how it is for now.
This is simply how it is.
