You touch me and I finally feel
nothing.
Well not nothing.
I felt relief,
warmth, and
a dull ache that one could might call
affection.
But basically nothing.
The trail of fire that came from your hands like a blowtorch that had me bubbling
like creme brûlée is now
just the embers from
a forest fire.
Your fingers are the warm coals—
okay,
maybe I don't feel nothing.
But the raging tsunami in my mind caused by you is now
a puddle.
And I know and I think
you know as well that we both know...
what we know.
I don't have to pretend that what you do doesn't interest me or that I don't worry about your
wellbeing, or pretend to not obsess about whether you're with her (or whoever), or pretend that I don't starve for the small bits of geniality you randomly give me
anymore.
And that in itself is bliss.
Yet I still care.
I want you to know that.
Please tell me you hear what my heart sings.
Because I can never face you.
It's you,
and even if you don't know, I trust the universe to send you
these words.
