Again

That’s it. I’ve done it. I blew it royally. Again.
I’ve just killed off the last speck of hope there ever was
of dating yet another wonderful and nice man.
I don’t know what it is with me, why I act like this.
Why do I always behave like an absolute fool
and scare away everyone I genuinely like?
Because I desire them too much and, as a rule,
my love’s too intruding, desperate, and obsession-like,
and I usually make the stupidest decisions
when I’m blinded by it (and seemingly brainwashed too!),
leading to awful disasters no one envisions.
Like with the latest one of them pertaining to you
I took a giant leap of faith. But I meant no harm.
I guess I just wanted to let you know I still care
and I’m concerned about you. There’s no need for alarm.
I wish you all the best with your business. Well you fare.
In my stomach I had a nasty tingly feeling
foreboding no good when I went skating yesterday.
For a long time now I’ve been dreaming, almost praying
that you would eventually contact me one day.
But not like this. So when you phoned me yester-evening
I was scared to death to pick the device up at first.
But I did and what followed was a nightmare living.
At your first words a quick crazy thought through my mind passed
that it might be only an unlikely drunken prank.
But hearing what you had to say I froze on the spot,
totally speechless and weak in the knees, to be frank.
I don’t know what you expected me to tell you but
I knew you didn’t want to hear what I wished to say:
that I love and miss you terribly and, most of all,
wish you were there next to me in person so you may
hold me and hug before my knees give way and I fall.
Nor could I bring myself to say what you wished to hear.
I could not promise to give up on you when that is
against everything my poor heart desires, I fear.
So I just stood there in darkness, breaking to pieces,
leaning against the cupboard to steady myself then,
unable to get a single sound word out of me,
let alone sentences without truly meaning them,
besides the several times repeated “I’m sorry.”
I can’t promise to stop having those feelings for you,
only to try to keep them to myself much better
and stay far away from you. That’s the best I can do
in order not to be a nuisance or a bother.
I cannot—mustn’t interfere with your happiness.
Sadly, however, nor can I stop fantasizing
about finding mine with you. But now I’m in distress
that the chance of it ever coming true I’m losing.
As I was unresponsive, you ended the phone call.
And while I was writing you a message afterwards,
I cried again so much for you that my eyes did swell
and through the veil of tears I could barely see the words
I was typing. I used a whole pack of handkerchiefs
and got a headache (as if heartache wasn’t enough!).
Only gaping emptiness remains when all hope leaves.
I did not expect the evening to become so rough.
And when I couldn’t cry anymore, another thought
flashed through my mind: that this isn’t really happening.
It must be just a bad dream what makes me this distraught.
I wish it was just the nightmare and I but sleeping.
I wish it wasn’t for real; that it never happened.
I wish none of this happened; that the whole thing
was only some immensely thwarted cruel prank and,
better maybe, I wish I hadn’t done anything.
I wish I could erase it: the order and tonight.
I wish I could undo all the stupid things I’ve done
in the past two years. I wouldn’t now give you a fright
and you would have no reason to avoid me and shun.
I wish that your sweet voice had something else to tell me
when you called me yesterday, something somewhat nicer.
I don’t believe you were entirely honest with me.
There’s no need to lie to me to make me feel better,
unless it’s for your conscience. That doesn’t make the trick.
Anyway, sometimes I wish I hadn’t danced with you
back then at all, but had seen you for the drunken prick
you were. Yet other times I wish we could start anew
or, at least, that I had danced with you more eagerly
when I had the chance. That I wish for way more often.
Maybe in that case it would have turned out differently.
And maybe it wouldn’t. To do it once more again
I never since had a chance and now I never will.
Never will I brush my fingers through your raven hair.
Never will I experience the romantic thrill
of snuggling in your arms and caressing your skin fair.
Never will I hear your voice whispering in my ear,
neither feel your lips pressed on mine in arduous kiss.
Such images instil into you but dread and fear.
But don’t fret, darling. No matter how much I miss
and crave these things, I won’t do anything you don’t want.
I feel like a shit that I am for crossing the line,
to your disturbance. Inside I feel so small and daunt.
The border between love and hate is extremely fine.
I should better crawl into some dark pit and stay there
alone forever, never more coming out again,
lest I ruin anybody else’s life. That I swear.
With desperate interest I but hurt my beloved men.
I gotta strive to stop it for general welfare.
I know you also wish I stopped writing poems,
at least about you. I’m sorry, I can’t do that. They’re
a kind of therapy while dealing with my problems,
a diary and a confessional in one. So here’s
the latest reflection on my emotional state
compiled accompanied by a river of tears.
In good or bad time writing is my integral trait.
But there’s one special thing I realized yesterday:
to kill a love, you have to let it starve to its death,
so it dies out by itself. That’s the only sure way.
Unfortunately, that may be a long process yet.