Art Gephyr

A message

I thought of it yesterday,
debated it last night,
convinced myself in the morning,
composed it during lunch,
and hit the send button.

Not quite an "I miss you,"
although I think I did.
Not quite an "I want to see you,"
although I think I do.

Safely worded as friendship,
if he wishes.
Quietly hinting at interest,
if I wish.

Cupid has yet to mortally wound me
with a direct arrow of knowledge.
Instead, something vague creeps,
like a pending disease
beginning in my toes,
meandering though my knees,
wandering though my stomach,
bypassing my heart to scratch my throat,
sending chills down my back,
and clogging my head with confusion,
indecision and doubts.
Only stillness and patience
will allow it to fester
into something terminal,
lest a sudden movement
breaks the fever
before it fatally strikes my heart.