Please May This Not Be A Game.

When I Say, "be My Lover", I Don't Mean, "let's Have An Affair." I Don't Mean "sleep With Me." I Don't Mean, "be My Secret." I Want Us To Go Back Down To That Root. I Want You To Be The One Who Loves Me. I Want To Be The One Who Loves You.

I'll See You Later, He Says, And As He Does, He Runs His Finger Briefly Over My Wrist. It Passes Over Me Like Air, And Makes Me Shiver Like A Kiss.

Instead I Head To The Computer And It's Like I Turn Into A Little Girl Who's Just Seen Her First Rainbow. I Get All Giddy And Nervous And Hopeful And Despairing And I Tell Myself Not To Look Obsessively At My Buddy List, But It Might As Well Be Projected Onto The Insides Of My Eyelids. At 8:05 His Name Pops Up, And I Start To Count. I Only Get To Twelve Before His Im Pops Up.

A Guy Can Do Far Far Worse Than Surrounding Himself With People Who Restore His Faith In Humanity.

You Ask Me What I'm Looking For, And I Outline You. You Don't Recognize The Shape, Offer Other Names. You Say My Time Will Come, And I Hope.