I

Each time I write or call her
and I don't get
an almost instantaneous reply
the next time
I check my messages,
it strikes me like a painful revelation.
What does she see in me?
Or what did she see in me?
And what do I see in her?

Apparently, something
that probably isn't really there.


II

The messages that I leave
unanswered in turn
in pondering this, it is cruel.
A few people out there know too well
what I am talking about,
and I am too mean and too helpless
to do anything about it.


III

And then she writes.
And I am so thrilled.
It's touching.
It's fucking pathetic.