Sim Sala Bim

I'm sweaty.

And band-aided and paranoid

of getting some plant-disease

or nameless infection

from tromping about in a small

strip of wooded land,

and walking through slimy water

and rocks.

And it was fun,

while it lasted.

But now I am only sleepy

and smelly and icky.

Too tired to work on poetry.

Which all I want to do.

The day will come when

I won't take any calls,

talk to anyone,

but just write,

instead.

All day, I'll fill pages and pages.

Real ones,

not Word documents.

And I'll find splendid phrases.

I will write my beat sonnet.

Someday soon.

When the weather is rainy

and slightly warm.

But not humid.

And I'll heave open the windows.

And let the curtains breathe,

and I'll gasp in all the fresh air

and expel all the stale air from

this place.

All the stale sentiment from my

soul,

the baited breath from my lungs.

Someday I might become a poet.

I will cross that threshold someday.

It doesn't have to be soon.

I'd rather wait.

Waiting isn't so bad,

if it's for the right things.

But now, I am here

and I am boxed up

and hunched over and

feeling so very

alone.

The television voices are whispering

to the fridge's metal hum.

I can't understand their conversation.

I know I'm not supposed to.

And while I'm here alone I am

feeling all cold and dried up,

and I want for certain small and insignificant things I can't

possibly have.

You won't laugh if I tell you what they are, right?

His voice.

It's got a cathartic rhythm to it at times,

and I adore it most times. His smaller voice

is splendid. His laugh is adorable.

I want to hear him talk. About anything.

But I can't.

I can't call him and listen to him.

His hands.

I want to just simply hold his hand.

Right now. They're always warm,

calloused.

I can't have his hands either.

I will never have his hands.

It kills me at times like these

to realize that really, nothing will ever happen.

Nothing. It might just never happen.

It's implausible.

It's also wildly stupid

to fall in love like this.

I hope some small and vulnerable part of him

realizes, somewhere, subconsciously,

that I love him.

I'd like to say, just once in my life,

if I ever, ever got the chance, to say

"I love you".

He makes me happy,

and he tears me to pieces as well.

That's what it's all about.

And I don't think I have ever wanted so badly

for him to just sort of hold me.

It's so silly,

I hate to admit such a silly, dumb thing,

but it's true.

Truer than true.

And I can't help what I think of him.

It just spirals deeper and deeper everyday

into something I have less and less control over.

I do not deserve him.

He's probably got someone lovely.

And he should.