Where does my love go
when I funnel it to you
and you reject it?

Do you look at this
stuccoed, tastefully neutral,
American sky,

like me, but restless?
Or maybe you're more lonely--
or maybe you aren't.

When you stop, are you
saying no to me, saying
"I do not want you"?

When I stop, I mean
only this: "You scare me, you
scare me, you scare me."

Does it disappear?
The love, I mean; does it sit,
collecting, like dust?

If I were sent to
you, I would gladly collect
unobtrusively

hidden in corners,
and I promise I'd never
ask too much of you.

voice shaky, I'd ask,
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
Not anything else.

Just permission to
quietly intrude, see you,
watch you, quietly.

Everything about
my love is quiet; surely,
you couldn't mind it.