Guilty Conscience

we used to walk the fine line
that divided our world between
simply existing and living life.

we were easy with one another
choosing not to implant
expectations or responsibilities
on our companionship
and relishing the ambiguity;

we used to wax
poetic.
philosophical.
rhetoric,
politicking
beneath the ambience
of Columbian beans
and Cinnabons--

but now I'm missing you.

I never had to plead you
to understand me
because you knew
the most tacit language I spoke;

you acted as if I were the sun
to nourish your stem,
the chlorophyl to green your leaves,
when you listened,
never judging or teasing
my eclectic sense of humanity.

We, as we exchanged poetry,
literature,
and just plain old conversation,
were like spirits familiar
from another world.

At your convenience,
I was able to escape the din
my life clanged in my ears.

But now I find myself missing you.

I'm guilty
because I love him
but I'm missing you--

because with you
I never had to explain myself
unless I chose--
because with you I never had to
presume American literature
an absurd pasttime--
because with you
I never became a freak
because you knew and understood
that "I'm an artist,
and I'm sensitive about my shit."

(c) 2003, j.g.h.