Back to the Drawing Board

My nose drinks...

My senses soak up the citrus of your cologne.

The soft cushions of my stomach

Are dissatisfied and unforgiving-

They reject you before my heart can.

My encompassing skin

Jumps to my own defense;

Fists clench-

Jaws tense...

I don't want you.

The insides of my chest and throat crawl

At your kind remarks,

My forehead scrunches

You pretend to know me...

You don't.

Only Thomas knows me.

My ears grow hot.

I want out of your reach...

Don't place your hand on my knee.

You're not him.

That's his knee-

If not by love then by

The loyalty that still cloaks over me.

Your eloquence

Composes the story you wish you were,

My intuition stirs...

I feel my body drift away, my heart escapes elsewhere in

A local earl-grey conversation...

The smell enters my nose...

And you're still not him.

I check my watch.

Your writing touches all the right notes...

But all I want is to rip out my own eyes

And burn my ears up so I can stop hearing you.

I wish your mouth would self destruct.

You pay the tab.

I watch your hands reach forward and I'm repulsed by them.

They are not his-

You don't have a freckle on your thumb.

My

Skin anticipates

The car seat

In which your lips will never meet mine-

Despite your firm belief...

Please stop touching me.

Do not touch me.

That's not your hand, sir.

That's Thomas' hand...

If not by loyalty than by the love

That's always been his.

There may be nothing left of he and I,

But there's nothing here,

In me

That wants you.

It's a long way home in awkward sighs...

Don't get my door,

That's what he used to do.

Praise God for

Southern gentlemen in delicious cologne...

But

I'll not hesitate in admitting

That all

I considered to be "home"

Was not sufficient.

It is not Luzerne...

You aren't him...

And if I can't have Thomas...

I'd rather be alone.