Signs of wanting ...

I really don't want to want you.

So I've decided not to.

I'm putting you in my friend box.

I curse a lot when we—                                  talk.

I touch you only when we

Bump briefly. And Never gently:

A firm pat, an elbow-ribbing,

                 Like any friend'd be giving.

I talk about people I'm dating.

You give advice—like, “Sometimes waiting

Is better, to find that right one.”

I seek your flaws while that fat sun

Turns all of you into a warm glow.

I look away,                                            “Hey, did you know

                                                      I wrote a new song?” 

“Yeah, who's it for?”

                                      “Just—no one. I was up late;

                                         felt bored.”

You mention that your birthday

Is gonna be the very First day

Of you being three decades alive.

I say, “That's great; way to survive.”

You push me, then: “You asshole.”

I rock forward, like your hands were lassos,

And then reach past you for a drink.

I smile.                           “You curse a lot around me, too,”

            I think.