The Cycle

I could express this in nuanced language,

weave metaphors of flames,

or waves,

or storms within me.

I could construct creative walls in which

I hide naked desire,

fearful of you finding what I mean.

Label me a nympho or a freak,

question my intentions if you must,

but I cannot conceal how

I want you.

But whenever I get close,

close enough to feel it,

close enough to show you that

I mean this,

I am afraid

again.

Fear rushes in like I am

a grade nine girl holding hands in a bus seat,

waiting for her first kiss from the only boy she’d ever loved.

Like I am

that same girl three weeks later,

stumbling through a script fed by the boy’s well-intentioned friend.

Like I am

in the back row of a theatre,

dimly lit and worried about braces.

Like I am

watching someone pull away, hearing them tell me everything’s okay,

and knowing that it’s not, knowing that they’re leaving, knowing that when I try to fix it

I only expediate the end.

Fear comes to me the same way it did

at our beginnings,

the same way it did

at our endings.

To put it simply:

I want you,

and of that I am afraid.

How long until we complete the cycle

again?