Here we go

The theory still stands
(on uneasy legs like mine,
swaying to a silent beat)
that my every movement
is a rough draft—
and my every word
should make you sick.
Does it?
Say it does. 

It took an hour to work up the courage
to tell you I love you.
And that was a lie.
Even when the mood that hangs between us
is totally pacific—strung like
white Christmas lights,
taut like a tightrope—
you make me seasick.
And you string me along
like I do you.

But at least
when I feel at ease
I don’t take advantage
or seek release—Well, 
not till now,
and really, does that event count?
Does it?
Pray it does.

Aren’t I glad, that
peering over the edge of this rocking ship,
I never held hands with anyone;
I never shared with anyone;
I never gave to anyone.
And every time I cast a look
in your direction, shielding my eyes
from the reflection on the water,
in a moment I could see the shoal
and withdraw
like I always do.

The motions that my lips would make
were never words;
my every movement
was a blind reaction;
every mood was a scratch
in a notebook 
to be scrapped.
All of this a fumbling grasp
at the light.

And it continues.
It keeps going.
Sounds keep slipping.
Hands keep sweeping.
Step away.
Does it end now?
Say it does.
Now step away.