A Kind of Drowning

I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

We bump into each other a lot, in this enclosed space.
My ears get hot whenever it happens.
She just excuses herself and moves around me.
My eyes fly to the ceiling, or fall to the floor, and I get out of her way.
She's extremely skilled at that by now-- moving around me.
Or maybe I'm just exceptional at getting in her way.

A smile spreads across her face, and she whispers something.
Or pats me on the head.
Or makes a joke.
Oh, what will I do?
I've let this go on for much, much too long.

I feel myself burning slowly.
Why must I always do this to myself?
I see her in the mornings, the afternoon, and rarely at night.
She sits against the wall, the glow of her cell phone's light illuminating her face.
Texting her boyfriend.
I want to run outside and scream into the wind.
I doubt she'd even hear me.

I shouldn't let this silly idea spread.
But the disease feels so nice.
So natural that it seems like I've had it from birth.
The content feeling of accepting her passing gestures.

She won't return these ramblings.
She can't; it's no one's fault.
She will never see them.
Even if she did, my cries would be in vain.

I know I need to let go.
Let the rope slip through my fingers.
Let the breeze blow the thoughts away.
Let this man overboard drown.