I suffer, first of all, from delusions of intimacy:
mindless moments contemplating
something heavy, sweaty, lungful,
painfully electric, worldly interesting,
intellectually dulling, and a bit boring--
but contemplating the action is nice.
Occasionally when a set of eyes slips down
I think, oh please; sometimes
after a fashion I fear unrequited affection,
I hate men, I'm sorry, I don't know why,
but back off, I love men, I'm truly sorry.
The thought is amusing, but the act is
paralyzing, like playing a boring game
which I know I can win without knowing
the rules if my fellow player is willing, and desperate.
There has to be a chemistry, a real
friendly effort, and I can't describe it.
Rapport from long knowing helps,
although so does nonchalant cuteness,
wit, sympathy, confidence, carelessness.
Only my being interested makes me think
interestedness is cute.
Now, when you are such a nice example of these good qualities,
it is hard to resist such temptations
as a smile-cracking wisdom,
drunken concern, your hand on my back.
Sorry, though, I don't play this game.
Too much difficulty in trying
to think about breaking
what existed before, what was right,
what was proper.
I sort of twist around in my solitude,
looking here and there for
soliticious smiles among the other nice guys.
Meanwhile I refrain from talking
about you to my friends
and only recall what's wrong
with your touch, your presence,
your voice.