You say you understand me,
but I don’t really think you do.
I think you pretend,
wafting into my life like a ghost
walking through walls;
you’re there sometimes, when I’m scared –
lost, insecure, paranoid –
still I don’t think you’re real.
You’d like to be, maybe,
but you’re as foreign to my feelings
as the Loch Ness monster
is to Lake Michigan;
it’s not natural for you to be
where I need you to be.
And that’s not your fault,
but I wish you’d stop trying,
because it’s not like I go around seeing
any Sasquatches in Indiana,
and it’s disconcerting to find
obscene footprints stamped
on all my bad days
and having to guess that they came from you
without ever really being sure.