Sometimes, I wonder

Sometimes I wonder,
if you’ll ever text me,
call me,
reach me after your:
“Can you do me a favor?”
list expires.

I wonder,
if the day will come
when you
call me your love
as if I actually were;

address me as honey
as if I could
sweeten the lie
that I’m yours
to be claimed as such;

call shotgun
in a crowded room
so everyone knows
that the place next to me
has already been taken,

name me your sweety
or all the endearing titles
you claim me to be
and actually mean it,
more than I wish
you’d stop saying them.

I’m sorry
that I can smell your intentions
to return my emotions
back to the foster home
you corrupted them from.

I’m sorry
that it’s difficult to adapt
to the facade you adopt
when we’re in public,
as if we’re familiar strangers
seeking for custody
of things we’re already content
to lose.

You’ve flipped me
cover to cover
and I wonder,
if you even know
what the preface
to my disappointment looks like.
You’ve seen it often,
but nothing seems to soften
you to acknowledgement.

I get it,
you’re undercover.
God forbid your friends,
or pets discover
that we actually talk
more often than
you lead them to believe,
more passionate
than you want to admit,
more boldly
than your want to stifle us
into secrecy.

So I wonder,
if another soul will ever know
by the slip of a tongue,
the faultline in your smile,
the losing battle
your makeup
effaces into blooming blushes
in my presence,
or will we blossom
into the margins
of each other’s lives,
scribbled into a footnote
we lost our point of reference from
now too worn to decipher,
to wonder,
too worn to care.


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