Writing is good for the soul...

[sozialchamaleon]

Hoping:
Our legs touch
and there's a spark,
one of hope.
It's hope
for the physical contact my body yearns for.
And I dig you
so it's hard
as the growing bulge, inching
down my right thigh
to not get my hopes up.
So I just ride
in the seat next to you,
enjoying your warmth
and trying to decipher
if you're just a physical person
or if I get this
pleasure because I might be
special to you.
And nothing more comes of it.
Just two knees knock,
together though individual,
along with each passing pot-hole.
The car races like my brain,
which insists on analyzing
this situation
and with the growing feeling
that I'm getting nowhere fast,
I lose all that hope
as I throw my weight
against me door
with a satisfyingly stern thud,
away from you
and your enticing, confusing knees,
and hips,
and thighs.
The funny thing is that
you're probably oblivious
as the door I cling to-
the one I've replaced you with.
What's funnier still
is that I'd probably have
better luck at companionship
with the door,
with all my weight against it now,
with my hand fingering the handle,
hoping that it will open on its own
because as usual,
I hope and I think
and I wish and I analyze
but the strength never comes
and I am left,
alone,
with you.