I know you can read me, love,
like we read our cats and dogs
(correctly when it comes to hunger
and other basic needs, less so
in their secluded, non-transparent pain).
It's way too obvious what is on my mind,
when I blush, holding your gaze.
Meanwhile, you don't blush, you freeeze
(for a second your eyes
switch to a screen saver mode
with one shining, rotating phrase:
"wait, what is happening?")
You check me out occasionally
with such tender curiosity
that I would never dare to call it harassment.
Aren't we all a bit ashamed
of our animal part of nature?
Aren't we skilled by the age of 40
in covering it up with poker face,
business-like tone,
carefully selected words
and measured movements?
Aren't we two a bit too aware
of not touching each other
when passing the objects,
meeting in the narrow spaces?
It almost looks like
there is mutual aversion,
which we are too polite to acknowledge.
It makes me wanna scream like a toddler
giving all of her energy to this moment
in total anger and frustration
throwing herself on the floor
in front of her parents who refuse
to buy her a candy (how annoyingly adult
in their restraint all those parents are!)
It makes me wanna shatter and scatter
the innocent things around your office,
turn into a hurricane, turn into a virus
that would speed up the apocalypse.
It makes me wanna be a zombie
so that I can walk towards you
and bite into your neck disregarding
the witnesses - whoever they are,
they should be just running away
in fear, leaving me alone with you
to devour your flesh, to strip you
to the bones of your soul.
But I say instead,
all dignity and composure:
"you too, have a nice weekend."