Sewing scissors.

Do you know I'm thinking of you?
Losing my mind, laughing,
waiting for something to tell me to quit
hoping. You're
out there, after all, and I'm in here,
with my head down and my makeup running-
I was never perfect.
But you sit cross-legged next to me
and tell me it's a secret.

It's ridiculous; it's petty.
But somehow I still can write your name
on the bathroom walls
and erase it after a minute.
I take my close resources and
dig a notebook's binding into my skin,
and I watch you all the time, half-hoping
you'll notice it and ask me.
Anything to bring it up.

If someone else does, I laugh,
just kidding,
and go back to looking down until your eyes
have moved away and I can stare again.
I pretend you're just like the others;
I am to you. I said we were good friends.
I said I was okay now that you were there.

I need to mean more than that to you.
Am I just morals, afterthoughts?
I don't want to take anyone's place,
just to be something new: the only one,
and bond in your breath with everything you need.
Tell me first, tell me first.

Did you ever notice I always pray
to hold your hand?