What I Want
But cannot say,
Not even to the silver-blue glow
Of the alarm clock numerals.
I don't even want to admit it to myself,
For then I would have to own
The words, or worse --
The feelings.
Feelings that the person next to me
Could never understand.
Or if they could, they wouldn't want to.
What is it about the wee hours
(as opposed to the we hours, since
this late at night contains the
vestiges of solitude) that make us
More open, more vulnerable?
It's almost like the liquid courage of alcohol.
We can admit just about anything,
As long as we have an out.
Desires dance along my skin,
And they are mine and no one else's,
Yet I lament the late-night
Wakefulness.
A curse to my brain,
This ever-thing that doesn't know
How
Or when
Or why
To shut off.
As long as I have the fall-back of the
Phantasmagorical evanescence within the psyche,
I can say things that I would not
Otherwise.