Where In We Meet at the Perfunctory of the Meniscus

I barely slept in your hot sheets as I held your hand and simultaneously dreamt of you. You parallel old obsessions and ambitions in an alarming way, you are however more tidy but equally unavailable. I wanted for you to hold me in the morning but it would seem you lost your nerve in soberness and instead slept with your fist covering your ear. I may have given up too much of myself as your nonchalantness in the late morning hinted at the fact you would likely let my text messages go unanswered in the later afternoon. And now if I thought I doted before, this close proximity boils the obsessions to the surface. Push down, float silently below the perfunctory. Where in the sweating and tiredness of muscles made me nervous, I now wait there, sweat slowly tracing my spine, watching for you to show. Things are pushing at the meniscus when I reality you are nothing. Mere dust between my fingers, lost smoke exuding your lips, synthesized melodies lost on deaf ears. Let me not again call out fire before the match is lit.