I hate to cry
and feel hot tears held high
in clenched eyelashes
fall, without splashes,
to freeze cruelly
and cut, silently,
paths where bitter salt lies
when my cheek dries,
but. . .
I thought perhaps I'd say I was crazy over you
but I wonder, How true. . . ?
I guess, though, it's safe to say
that I like you more everyday,
and it hurts: to not be able to do anything;
to watch, continually wondering
if it bothers you that I hang around so much
or if you have a boyfriend and such;
to see you sitting on someone's lap
and by him after that;
to be far too shy
to do anything but break down and cry.

November 22, 1985