, , , ,

I’m afraid to ask the people
who would know the answer,
afraid to let them know
I love the way
you make me feel.
So I sit in this quiet corner
in agony,
swallowing the hungry
question down my throat,
the incriminating intention
twisted like a handkerchief
in my restless hands.

For them, you
are a regular occurrence,
an everyday thing,
your presence congruous
like a cell phone beeping,
a name on their phone book,
a car that honks its horn
at their front gate,
whereas to me,
your occasional appearance
is no less than
a breathless miracle,
a beautiful phenomenon
science can’t explain
the way you’d materialize
like a legend
conceived in Norse myths and
spawned in sand storm mirages.
You’re like that.
You make me feel
like a giddy child
and someone very,
very old
at the same time,
making days hop like bunnies
and hours drag like tired feet
on sun-baked asphalt
of longings
one too often times betrayed
by disappointment,
keeping a mathematical genius
on her toes, then
driving her to her knees
in vain, desperate calculations
of statistical probabilities
of what her chances are
with you,
and wondering when,
God help her,
she will see you again
the moment
you step out of the room.