More Than A Feeling

I’m sure you’ve felt it. 
Felt it with every inhale and exhale,
with every tremor of your body.
When your chest, being the feeling’s only boundary,
tries to move, wriggle
accordingly from what is inescapable. 
                  Nothing can make it stop.
Nothing can make you stop feeling, thinking, 
breathing in the idea that you want something that you
can’t look for.

But you want it. You want its so bad.
So bad, it becomes this torturous progression
from looking to not looking but wanting to look, to not looking while secretly looking all
during those 2AM drunken minutes of
dark toppled moves toward that
dirty couch in the corner. 

And yet it doesn’t count,
at least, that’s what you tell yourself
as you resort to your teen vogue bibles and cosmopolitan preachers,
hoping that maybe you can find one more image, one more movie, one more song, or story
to let you know that your faith
is not a lie.

Its aggravation.
Its frustration reeling its distorted head, 
to hiss the fact that your hopes,
my hopes, might not exist. 
And no matter how cute I look in those tight jeans,
or how easy my belt is to take off, 
I know that I’ll still have to wait,
still have to count those tedious tantalizing minutes till-

             You know what?!
       That pisses me off.
That for every minute that goes by,
for every tick of that taunting round face,
          I don’t have the power.
And I feel persecuted
I feel hate as I wait, wanting,
wanting to know, to love, to decide who goes
and who stays for all my make out montages
with John Mayer soundtracks,
looking for what
I. can’t. find.

       It damages my drive, my self esteem, my
pure existence to know that I don’t have that power, that choice
to find who will give me my romantic redemption.
So I will say this:
I’m here
and I’m waiting,
as long as it takes.
        And, I’ll look at my watch,
            I’ll take a breath, 
and I’ll move
           accordingly.