by Robert W. Gill

Copyright - May 24, 1998

I watch you leave, again.
Why can't I get past the fear to just approach you,
to tell you that I like you,
that I want you.
Want you more than is healthy
more than is sane.

A forced extrovert, that's me.
When the contact is superfical it's easy
to talk, to joke, to laugh.
Heck I can even flirt
with someone I have little interest in.
Yet you, you I can barely say "hi" to.

I look at you when you aren't paying attention.
My sight traces the sweet curve of your jaw,
the soft outline of your neck,
the shape of your face,
as my heart wishes it were my fingers instead.
You glance my way and my gaze is elsewhere.
Years of fear have given me quick reflexes.

Why can't I make eye contact with you?
My soul isn't so transparent that meeting your gaze
would reveal my longing.
At least I don't think it is.

If it was life might be easier.
The whole world, you included, would see the throbbing
torment I feel when I think of you.
The exquisite ache in my heart when I
dream of you and me
embraching, limbs interwined,
souls comingled.

If it were so at least I wouldn't have to
break the chains I've fashioned for myself.
You would know my desire
and then I could relax,
in theory.
I would be free.

But life doesn't work that way does it.
I know what I have to do.
I just need to find the strength to do it
before you are gone.
One step at a time.

This was a step.


Last updated: December 23, 1998
Created + maintained by Bob Gill.