Can barely believe I am in turmoil again,
Tossing and turning in bed,
Rolling you over, again and again,
To look at you from every angle,
To study and decipher you,
As though I am still 16
And it is still November.

Perhaps you think of me
And given half a chance,
Yet another half a chance,
I can pull you in
And place my declaration
Upon your lips.

And perhaps you think less of me,
And there are no longer any chances
To be had,
And I will humiliate and exhaust myself
To no end
But bitterness.

It is June
And I am not 16.
But then,
I've never kept myself in time so well.
I expect that I'll keep chasing
Until I reach some kind of end.