Coney Island

Someday I'm going to have to tell you.
Someday next year.
And it will be the best
and worst day of my life.
I'll probably get 
sick afterwards,
as is par for the
course of my life.

I'll tell you so some
of that burden can 
rest on your soul
for a while.
It's selfish,
but I need to get rid
of some of the weight
and hurt you are putting
on my shoulders
because I love you,
and cannot manage to
figure out how to
stop.

You'll know and it will
be weird
and you'll be offended
and I will be shaking
with nerves
and we won't know what to do
about the words exchanged.

And the small
insistent, annoying
and naive part of me
will keep saying,
'he'll love you',
'he'll love you'.

But he won't.
Because we can't get everything we want in life.
Not even the most important things.

Because I just want to be
able to fall asleep next to you.
Just want to lie on the sofa
and watch It's Always Sunny.

Just want to be able to voice
the ailment,
scream at you in utter anger
that I fucking love you,
and I hate you for being 
so damn unattainable.