scraps

there are days when

i hate you

or rather i hate

that you aren't there, 

waiting

like so many 

others 

have been.

hate that i feel

avoided, or

set aside and 

unnecessary.

but perhaps 

it is that reality 

of you, 

that truth

that allows me 

to keep in check

thoughts that might

surge 

like brushfire, 

sweep

beyond the small 

control of

my grasp, 

were i garnered

more attentions 

than the few you 

hand 

over my way. 

i wait like

dog or beggar 

for those

tablescraps, 

count crumbs

and save them, 

rationed for

the long 

spaces of silence

and the always 

scant supply

that comes. 

i can't

help but wait 

around, 

tho

i don't want it 

to seem like

i'm waiting. 

don't want

the stench of 

desperation

to hang
on these curtains.

in effort to be 

more present, 

more here

with my thoughts, 

have i 

shredded my
mystery 

and thrown it 

piecemeal 

at your feet?

why, then, do i 

marvel

at your not 

wanting it?

who can say 

these things.  

who can know 

the thought

without the sound 

of words

ringing with 

something 

other than the
echoes 

of one's own
head.

words, letters 

clatter 

around the page.

and perhaps 

there is more

wisdom 

in the maintenance 

of this

than my wanting 

gives,

whatever,

credit for.