nathan lyle


July 18th, 1998

Today would have been six years with you married,
and it's still been six years, just minus the "with you" part.
Well, actually that'll be true in about fourty six minutes...
It's 11:23pm and counting, and thinking about feeling.
My currents froth cold and hot as if undecided,
but I sure as hell know I'd be happier on calmer water.
Looking over the edge I can see the chaotic depths,
and sometimes I get a taste and feel with a random splash.
How much of me is the water and how much of me is trapped in the boat?
Maybe if I tip over it won't matter for long.
It's 11:33 now, I write this in the bed I'll miss tomorrow night.
I'm glad you're having fun this weekend, and the kids were fine,
and I'm hoping you'll forgive me for breaking down yesterday
and crying and almost begging you not to go.
I couldn't beg you to take me back, despite my need,
because nothing has really changed.
But I will admit that I overestimated my ability
to cope with losing your hugs, smiles, and touch.
This must be what it's like to be a drug addict,
to be obsessed with the thing that's killing you.
Maybe that sounds extreme, but I know I love you,
and I know that our inability to trust would smother me.
Being with you but not having you in sight
sets my heart running like a hamster on a wheel in it's cage.
But waking up in the morning without your warmth
is killing a little piece of me every day with no end in sight.
Who else in this world is going to put up with me like you did?
Not even you anymore, now that you have your freedom.
I guess I can't believe in love being possible with anyone else,
which pretty much leaves me little to look forward to.
Remember speech class in highschool? I asked you out...