Tonight I am left with feelings of profound emptiness that would make a good poem if I had the willpower.
You are the main act tonight. I’m devoted to our situation. I’m undertaking a critical analysis of everything we’ve said to each other over the past five months. Easy enough. Meaningful conversation fails me when you’re around. I usually opt for meager nodding or lame pleasantries if I’m feeling brave.
I rarely do.
So, I can run through these short exchanges pretty quickly. But when the recall is short I’m left with more time for dissection and I’m stupid enough to grab a knife and delicately, carefully shred the thin layers off until I’m left with nothing.
I am addicted to over analysis.
I’ll consider the stolen glances. Smiles from across the room. That one time I saw you outside the bank two blocks down from work and I could have sworn there was something, something there in the microsecond you took to recognise me and smile big.
You usually smile with your lips closed. Tight. Like it hurts just a little bit.
I am all too capable of manufacturing meaning from mundane fact.
In the morning I’ll probably wake up and feel a bit better. I’ll take the dog for a walk and then go to work and I’ll pretend, with every fibre of my being, that you’re not there. It’s surprisingly easy for about two hours. But then I’ll have to set up the boardroom and to do that I’ll have to walk past your office and try, try, TRY not to take a quick look through the window. I will most certainly fail.
Then the whole day is gone. I may as well commit to growing thoughts of you right now.