What are you doing to me?
I wish I could be certain that you did or didn’t… feel for me. If you don’t, then I can let go without qualms, if not without pain… I don’t want to let this bubble of hope rise any higher to hurt worse if/when you burst it.
Why didn’t you give me a clear answer, dammit? [i don’t remember the question]
Or are you just as confused as I am?
Why are you so nice to me? Why do you care? Why you? Why me?
The line of poetry I thought you referred to was this:
‘we with shattered hearts’
I feel nervous and alive around you – every time the phone rings I think that maybe, miracle of miracles, you’ve called. Every disembodied footstep or whistle might belong to you. I hope, see, that damn weak unquenchable feeling.
I’m going to like you more and more badly unless you do something to make me stop.
Please. Help me?
