I am so full of infatuation for everything as of late. I am in awe of
my own courage but know this is foolish and will not last long. Even my
dreams have been invaded so that I wake up nostalgic for something that
never was. Oh! I am so frantic with desire. I miss someone I have yet
to get comfortable with. I long for a closeness of more tangible
qualities than abbreviated words typed in a rush and sent across the
telephone wires. I sit, cautiously defying the urge to drop all
commitments and surround myself with indifference. I’ll find a job in a
sleazy café, slave away, merely to obtain a foothold in a quest for
distraction.
I drink down a glass of your sweetest compliments
on a habitual basis now; consequently wanting more. I stepped out in an
obnoxiously giddy mood yesterday, feeling terribly nervous that people
would think me drunk when I wasn't. Indeed, it was your image in my
head sending me in directions across the pavement, not a vague pool of
wine in my stomach. I cannot fathom drinking to enjoy myself. Frankly,
I find no need to.
I am human, not a machine. I am certainly not
cold nor mechanical, despite desperate attempts to acquire this. I am
sorting through your features and limbs in my head. Categorising the
parts I want to remember for later.
I am going out on a whim for
you. I sit here waiting for an invitation. I am mulling you over in my
every cell. I wish you were still a mystery, sometimes.
I would stop asking for so much but you keep me spoiled, young man.