Tag

I know that you know that I know you're over there,
and I know that I hate that you know that
of all these people
you're the one whose voice I want to hear.

It's a game
Of tag with pheromones,
and careful nonchalance, feigned ignorance.

It's an exhilaration
Of self-conscious zeal,
and monitored eye tag, deliberate accidental brushes past your shoulder blade.

Mine are like paperclips to your magnet eyes
from across the circle.
My mind is fully present when you speak,
shelving all other weights,
displaced by your company.
My hands are buzzing with awareness of
The nearness of you.

My heart treasures up all your
acknowledging glances,
all the laughs at my jokes,
all the quips, and gestures,
the shine in your eyes.

Overheard snippets,
and fear rises;
Woeful are the whisperings of the cannibal named self-doubt!

And so I tread (tread tread) the path of retreat
my feet are well-accustomed to.
Receding back to the safety of solitary cups of floral tea and
autonomous anonymous trips to wherever,
where the only unguarded honesty nestles in the late-night conversations in the space between my pen and paper.

And so the voice of Little Miss Safety commences the dreary familiar dictation:
Dear one, you will never know what could have been.
Guarded one, you will never know what could have been.
Calloused one, you will never know what could have been.