I hate it when she calls me at work
every month or so
and says she misses me and wants to
come over that evening, because
the rest of the day carries the conviction
of my being cool and indifferent with her,
seared with flashes of my forcing her
to give me compensatory head,
but the damned fondness I still harbor for her
entices me to wander down that what-if road
of moving her in with me
and doing it right this time,
but I know she’d either finally succeed
in killing herself
or pushing me over the edge
so I do it for her.
I don’t care for any of those thoughts,
but it’s all right – 
usually with a curse and a sigh of relief
I realize she’s stood me up again.
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Poemission
Damned Anticipation
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