it’s nothing to cry about…

it’s all smoke,
your signals, my signals.
i feel aflame.

worried, hurried,
alone but not lonely.
instantaneously infinite,
do you realize your implied promise?

the list of what you don’t know about me begins there.  you don’t know how much i hate promises.  don’t suffocate me.  your idealism is terrifying.  i dream, too, but i don’t believe the way you do.   every book i read is built on a broken promise.  promises are foolish. 

there is a time and a place for a promise, but it’s not now.  i’m too harsh on you, i know.  you didn’t even say the words aloud.  it’s just that your emphasis on the future drenches me like karosene, awaiting your torch.  i feel combustible, delicate, frayed. 

i can’t get you out of my head as this last long week wanes and it frustrates me.  it’s all i talk about.  all i do is look at your pictures, re-read emails, plan outings and buy tickets.  i only feel better when i’m acting, when i’m cleaning or browsing museums or looking at train schedules. there is so much pressure for your trip to be perfect and i’m cracking under it, all of a sudden everything is splintered into doubtful pieces in my mind.