(no subject)

[taratemima]

So, I was one of the winners of the monthly writing challenge at blackglass.org, which makes me even more happy than I was. I know at least of some of my friends could relate to it. I am, of course, feeling more assured about my writing.



Even as I go on with my day,
just like all the advice columnists say,
I still wonder if I will miss your call.

Yet I can't stick around
flipping through channels,
staying away from the Internet
wishing for the phone to ring,
then I start thinking about
that Lord Dunsany collection
that I hunted through
every used bookstore in Boston
for.

You never said thanks,
you never said
"Hey, want to have dinner?
I am finished with my
daily trips to the library."

When you do call,
we only talk about the
weather,
favorite authors,
grad school,
you have to go,
always before I can say
something about myself.

Conversation ends
like a heart attack,
and I never say
"Come visit me."

In my daydreams I finish it,
"Come visit me,
I want to tell you
about nights I've hugged a pillow
about days I hear your voice.
Let's go out to eat,
let's talk about times
we felt deformed
and times we sat alone
at dances.
This is what we hoped for
in high school, right?
Someone to love us
no matter how we are.
Do you love me as
how I am?"

In my nightmares I say the aside,
"Or am I just someone
that gives you rare books and cookies?"

I realize,
after the conversation,
I am acting no different
than people on the Discovery Channel
offering bowls of milk, butter, candy
to still idols.

The idols don't talk back
when the worshippers say
"I love you."

You never let me say it,
and I hate
I am still your devotee.