He loves me, He loves me not (working title)

Sometimes I sit, staring at the phone balanced 

precariously

on my knee, 

while I pull the hand-rolled joint getting

higher and higher

just so I don't fall any lower. 

"I miss you", "I love you",

I can't push them past my lips

without immediately shying away from them.

Too vulnerable of a move

when I'm pressing against a cold brick wall. 

But why?

This is not what love is supposed to 

feel like. Love was that inexplicable

joy that caught in my throat

so raw that tears sprung to my eyes;

it was the gentle shifting when our heartbeats

fall into the same cadence. 

It was the basic, organic feeling of "right". 

It was there, with you.

It's the root of us that I've been missing.

The nights we talked, no pauses, no awkward silences,

and the sun greeted us before our mouths

had run out of words. 

Fleeting moments when you'd first walk into a room

and I could feel a slight charge in the air. 

To construct anew these ways of connecting

is baffling and tiresome,

but I'm willing

(if you're willing).

Now, if we could just get past

our pride.