Monday Morning

It's Sunday night, I'm seeing you in 12 hours. It'll probably be like it's been for the last month. You may be asked to go to give some oral and I'll cry a bit from my desk in the back left corner while I see you, beautiful, and hear your voice, and pray you don't make any mistakes. Maybe Marie Claire will notice again, and ask me what's wrong, and won't believe me when I say "Nothing, really, it's just stupid." Because it's been a month now (a month and nine hours), and at this point it really is stupid to be crying over you. It's embarrassing, and I've stopped talking about it with my friends, I don't want to be a bore, I don't want to seem weak.

And you come in, at seven thirty, and greet me with a casual kiss on the cheek, just like everyone else, but not really. We don't say "hi", we don't make eye contact, and we keep on kissing people like it's no big deal. At least I do. For you, I guess, it's only natural, and you don't think about where we would be kissing if everything were like it's supposed to be. And you don't realize how my heart skips a beat when you walk in the classroom, and three beats when your cheek touches mine.

I don't know if you ever really thought it over, how you consume me every morning, from seven thirty to twelve fifteen. And then we both go our seperate ways, and I cry at home, and you play your computer game and skype with Guido four miles away from my tears. Every day I get a fresh reminder that says "I still love you, and I'll never have you again, there's no hope. I'm invisible to you." It's a big flourescent post-it on my chest, and it's glue is like acid, it's burning it's way through my skin.

That's how it's been for the last month, and that's how it's gonna be tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. But, still, I can't help hoping that maybe somebody will tell you what a mess I am because of you, and you'll come up and talk to me, because you actually do care for me. And I'll tell you what you've done to me, so you'll know, and you'll say how sorry you are that it had to be this way, and that you still think about me sometimes, and that you miss being my friend. That way I can prove that I didn't dream it all up, because I'm really starting to reconsider my sanity. I had you, I was in you arms, you told me you loved me, you needed me, you asked me that I never leave you. And suddenly you took it all back and pretended it haden't happened. You can't take something like that away from me, they were the best days of my life.