all he has to do is hint and i'm off to the races
building playlists and writing stories,
inserting myself in deep moments of longing i imagine he's having
specifically about me
i feel what it's like to be yearned for
and it makes me want to be the subject of that desire,
receiving the love i see between the lines,
even though he's said nothing (of substance)
i do all the work, and i'm happy to
this way i'm loved exactly the way i want to be
in my head, he's staring out windows thinking about the way my fingers dance in the condensation of a glass,
the crooked smile i make when i'm humoring him, and the way i notice all the little moments of infinity tucked inside the mundane.
but then the truth comes crashing in,
it always does
all he wants to do is fuck me
and when he does he's taking from me what i'd give him freely if he'd just ask
it's a transfer of ownership for him
it's about win or lose with him
and i always lose
but in the moments before,
when i'm envisioning the alternate realities where we're together, where everything is different,
i forget that we are misaligned,
on different paths that occasionally intersect.