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The Question
You ask him, “Do you like her?”
Without my consent.
Your manicured fingers type furiously,
Asking questions and probing
About personal lives
And my heart starts beating
Because I don’t want to know the answer
To a question that should have never been posed.
He reads your message
But never replies.
You have stranded me on a precipice
Between friendship and one-sided attraction;
I never want anything more than
Tickle fights during movie night
Or car rides to football games
Where he sings off key while I laugh along;
You have created an illusion
That I crave his affection.
For this, I hate you.
He never answers,
For this, I love him.
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