The guy in the red adidas.

You’ve chosen to ignore that I think you sensuously. And I like you to believe that I’m not aware. Is in in the effort you put your apparent lack of interest that I see the evidence that you have not allowed yourself to even think of me the way that makes the heart tickle. One would even think you just want me to go away --until you play me, and let me come upstairs and get drunk of you, and take a picture of your naked body against the light of the lamppost outside, and kiss goodbye in the threshold of your door. Only then, I’ve dared to think there’s already a story.

 You serve me every day with stone cold indifference, yet you were happy I remembered your birthday, and told me you were happy for me and my future plans. I would have thought you really wished me to go from the neglection that came after a period of cold feet – until you play me, and make me talk about stars to kiss me right after and get me drunk of you, but for one night only. 

I’ve come to believe that deep inside you know I think you sensuously, and you have the conviction that I savored every inch and wish you so intensively it made your heart tickle. It is in the intensity you devote to believe I am not worth any of your attentions that I see you would naturally feel comfortable gravitating around me if you didn’t talk yourself against it. Contempt knows no hesitation, yet I’ve seen many cracks and oh so tiny but oh so often.  Hope comes not from your long tundra gaze but from the tiny volcanic fire lock in the minuscule part of the iris that serves as the channel to your soul. I’m next to close to give up soon, unless you play me, and remind me of the drink I owe you, and allow me to see how your laughter brightens up your face, and look me like someone you also desire, and wish to test if the kissing was actually good or your senses were deceived. It’s all happening because, even though it has a story rather long and lacking romance,  one night you played me, and you let me come upstairs and even called my name in a moment of pleasure, and got me drunk of you. However, you also drank of me and you never thought it would mean something, but it did.

You may not like me after all, but you like the way I think you sensuously. It is in this contradiction that I find an excuse to keep on hoping you will stop treating me like an enemy and find a temporary accomplice, but it is also in this confusion that I know you could just lock yourself away from me, and in the most inglorious way finally ask me to fuck off.