I could never write you a poem. I’m not a poet. Maybe that’s why.
But if I did I’m sure you wouldn’t read it. Or, at least, you wouldn’t want to. If it was long, you wouldn’t finish it. Or, at least, you wouldn’t want to.
And it’s for the best that I’m not a poet, because I find it hard to believe you’d like to see yourself through my eyes. I don’t think you’d want to see what I do and don’t know of you and how I do and don’t twist your body, words, actions around in my mind.
But I can say here, now, not to you or anyone in particular, is that I stayed up all night, hopped up on something sure, but I’ve been coming down for a while now. The only thing that’s kept me up, as the sun is rising and kept me out of my bed leaving me just a few hours to sleep before a shitty, busy day at work, is something that belongs to you.
At first I was just trying to fix it for you, see if it was working. And it sort of was. Sort of is. But I’m disgusting when it comes to you, and you probably know that. I wish you didn’t. I went through it. Things that have no relevance to me and my life. Things that don’t make any sense. A work evaluation and salutations in a hallway. Awful rustling sounds. A four second clip. And it was thrilling. And I’ll listen to them again. And I’ll try and pinpoint the days that they were recorded. Because your voice intrigues me beyond belief. Because it’s a treat to observe you without risk of being obvious. Because I can pick out when I started to get to know you, and my memories of you are things I constantly revisit, even as I make more.
There is nothing beautiful about it. I’m most certainly ashamed. But it’s there, and I’m doing it. And I’d stop if you told me to, but you never will because you’ll never know.