Saffron on my skin,
soft and sentimental,
sensitive to the time,
sending signals with my actions,
seeking answers on your intentions.
Seven PM seems about right,
so why am I nervous?
Surely soon meant soon?
Seven wasn’t a sure thing,
sure. Neither was today,
so, maybe I’m building myself up,
so high, just to fall,
sobbing over “soon” meaning different things,
(saying softly to myself that I have yet to actually cry, and that the night is as young as I feel when you kiss me)
spilled milk,
something or nothing.
Sure, you’re busy,
so, I should be too,
sadly, I’m just lost in my selfishness,
surrendering to my childish grasps for your attention.
So, I worry that I expect too much,
so, I shut down, write a poem,
so, I miss you,
(so, I don’t know where THAT came from)
so, I’m afraid to tell you, in case I come across as too much,
so, I sleep for an hour, and hope, you’ll want to see me.
See me,
see my soft skin,
sitting on my bed,
seeking you.
