what i asked of you

Address me with simple words.
I don't need phrases.
I don't need steely glances
through crowded corridors
or awkward exchanges,
where I picture us embracing,
blind to your true intentions.
In my head
you're hating me
and loving me
all at once,
because I've never been one
who thrives on the logic
of casual interaction,
void of deeper motivation.
I'm secretly seducing you
with books and educated taste.
Like everyone
in every library and bookstore
I enter.
Little eyes and large eyes
make it seem like a mistake,
but my advances are unnoticed--
perhaps it's for the better.
I've failed at seduction with my grammar
but I know little else,
except for subtle repartee,
and willing you,
silently,
to take my hand.
That's all I want from you.
Pressure applied
from palms and fingertips
so close they've joined into one.
One waltz of tension,
one hopeful reluctance,
when we will each other
to want the other
in a movie theater
in a town that's not ours
with platonic buffers on either end,
more aware of our ignorance
and our youth.
Your youth is more severe,
and my want
is the only want
we're really discussing.
What if it wasn't,
and you were writing for me,
too?
I'd shake my head.
I'd collapse into sobs
and wonder what I'm supposed to want,
now.
Nothing,
I suppose.
But the prospect of owning--
having in my possession,
rather,
your Polaroid
sends me into catatonia.
Because what do I do
when that isn't enough?
When your image makes me crave something
I have,
plastered on my wall
or marking a page in
my beloved Nietzsche
and I'm still struggling with the pronunciation
and spelling
of Zarathustra?