Saturday, June 21, 2014

La Douleur Exquise

La douleur exquise is the exquisite pain
of wanting you
of seeing you
every day
and knowing each time
that your smile
and your eyes
and everything about you
belongs to someone else.

La douleur exquise is the beautiful torture
of hearing your voice
of seeing your text
of watching your fingers on your drink
and knowing each time
that you can never be mine.

There are days,
moments,
minutes where I think
that maybe this time,
this time maybe
maybe you will see me,
and every time
that moment fades,
that dream fails,
and you are gone
like smoke on the breeze.

La douleur exquise is waking at night
wrapped about a pillow,
dried tears on my cheeks,
because my heart dreamed of you
holding onto me.

Two years I’ve waited,
watched and hoped,
and many more I’ll linger
hoping the day will come
when you realize
that I’ve been here the entire time.

I thought la douleur exquise
was only for teenaged girls
dreaming of men in Hollywood movies,
but here I am
starving
panting
shivering
waiting
and you work two cubicles from mine.

It’s silly,
outrageous,
stupid,
naive,
to sit at my desk,
tense all over
when you walk by and say
“Good morning.”

And that one time we danced
and I shouted numbers
at your face,
how could you have known
especially when you fled
that my heart beat so loud
I thought you could hear it.

But the next day
she reminded me by mistake
that you belong to her
(she doesn’t belong to you)
by inviting me to your show.
And that right there
is la douleur exquise.

(I'm not great at poetry.)