regarding

I’m twenty-five.

Mushy brains and mushier guts.

I have to make jokes to keep talking.

Observation, situation,

I make fun of what I see you might laugh at if I make fun of it.

And sarcasm: my wingman.

I’m twelve again.

Shit for brains.  Guts scared shitless.

I can’t start myself talking.

You’re watching, listening,

laughing at me laughing at what you’ll laugh at.

With Sarcasm, my protector.

I regress in a matter of minutes.

Confident then.  I can’t now.

Because you’re smiling.

You’re looking at me.

You’re not looking at him

and he needs you to look at him…

I just want you.

I’m twelve again.

Deciding what’s wrong is wrong.

Choosing what’s right.

Right now I can’t choose you.

Because he doesn’t have you.

Because I was taught to help the helpless,

those who have less than me.

I can’t because he can’t.

I’m twenty-five.

My brain stops what my heart wants.

My gut tells me to listen.  My hands reach to take.

They all want you but I can’t choose you.

He’s my friend.  He needs you.

But maybe I need you.

Help the helpless,

those who have less.

Neither of us can have you.

Though without you,

no one has less than me.

photo:http://farm1.staticflickr.com/83/214469722_93d2dcf000_b.jpg