There is only so much to be said, you tell me.
Maybe that talking,
that incessant nagging is done.
The kind that eats into my soul
leaving this bit of emptiness I don't know what to do with.

I miss your traits.

I've been mistaken for different people in my life
but all I really want is to touch and be touched
to speak honestly and leave no bullshit.
To observe and be observed.
There is so much for us- it's all waiting.

When I watch you move
I'm not thinking about you naked.
Looking up and down I see how easy
and carefree
your joints bend.
And how you ripped the designer patch
off of your jeans.

As I touch your arm I'm saying
I like you,
your company.

You look at me.
I hate this fucking shirt, you say.
Well, I tell you, throw it away
and stop bitching.

The trees shake from battering wind
and my mind/body/soul is tired
of adjusting itself
to a reality full of games.
I won't do it anymore.

I speak not of love but of life.
Of sad, depressed, paranoid
figures. Always assuming.
People like me.