i am so scared of losing you; i can’t even be in the same room
when you wash the dishes — watch television — fold laundry
i walk around scared — scared that i might lose you
what tumor? it’s benign, they say — so me, i’m not worrying!
i get angry when you tell me anything — i’m just a shell behind my glasses
i shut down, get more lonely, bury myself in parties and long nights, books
and television, girls and writing, work and friends,
i walk around doing ordinary things — live in the room next to yours
never in the same room you’re in, but i want to be close to you
not next to you!
i am a coward, my friends and brother and sister
they all think i’m cruel (and a coward)
i suffer — the barely acknowledged — burning away 20 odd years
cigarettes down my throat; filtered, light, and tarred
running into myself, blocking myself, resisting myself
so i will never ever have to stop, can’t let myself think
the day will come — as all days do —
when i lose you.