Sleeping Alone, Waiting for Something

You know, the one thing I could never do

Was give you space to think.

I’d like to say I’m a man of action, a do-er,

But it’s not that. It runs in the family,

We’re of the stock that can’t keep our hands off

An open wound.

I hesitate to call this a wound, because I think

That finally, mercifully, neither of us are

Hurting any more.

It’s almost like a loading screen–

I’d like to think I know the outcome,

The bar reaches the end, the symbol stops twirling,

And I finally have you in my arms again.

But I’m the type that clicks the screen,

Mashes the “x” button.

And what if that’s not the outcome?

What if the game crashes?

They say love is a drug. It’s corny, sure,

But I think it’s true. I’m sure there’s

Some chemical explanation;

oxytocin, dopamine, seratonin…

Alfie would know.

I’m more interested in the symptoms, though.

“Doctor, I hadn’t used in ten months,

But it’s all I thought about night and day. Yesterday it got too much, and I relapsed,

And I don’t know when I’ll get my hands on

More. The withdrawals are agony; I have

Insomnia, I can’t relax, I can’t think straight,

I’ve lost my appetite. You have to help me.”

“Well then, you’d better hope that game loads, hadn’t you?”

Ten months passed in the blink of an eye,

And, once again, I’m putty in your

Delicate hands.