I sit across from you
in the restaurant
seething, glaring at
your smile and the days
worth of beard growth
begging to be shaved
so angry, I can't
stand to be touched
even though I want to
reach out and run
my fingertips over
your bristling skin
over your smooth lips
softer than any cliche
this poet could come
up with, I know
its my fault
your patience worn threadbare
the fibers snap and we snarl
at each other and we go
our seperate ways on the street
actors exiting stages left and right
and I know its my fault
that I'm alone now drinking
in this bar on pay day
drinking the heat
and my self-loathing away
its my fault that I'll be
alone tonight, sitting here
wondering what you're doing now
studying, eating dinner,
watching T.V., I'm sure
you're not thinking
about me as the minutes
they pass by, into the setting sun
and as they pass I realize
I'm not angry
I'm saddened
I'm ashamed
and I'm sorry.

06/18/2003

Posted on 06/19/2003
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