Look at me

Look at me.

I mean really look at me.

What am I?

Am I a shining beacon of love and hope?

Does all of the self work I've done make me a sparkling example of how love can transform a person, lead them to improve themselves, mind, body, and soul?

Or am I just some dude with a failing marriage who made the age-old mistake of falling for the beauty who lives a few doors down? Mistook kindness for interest. Projected the failings of his own situation onto hers.

Maybe I even made up all of the love garbage to justify the ridiculous lust that, even in the midst of my own self-generated turmoil, still managed to wake me up in the middle of the night with the image of you in those pants you were wearing last night…

While walking by, eyes carefully to the front, never looking my way, not even for an instant, not like you usually do.

Again.

One day is a fluke.
Two in a row is statistically interesting.
Three is a pattern.

Maybe my recent self assessment wasn't so far off, after all.

Or maybe it's much ado about nothing. I don't know what's happening in your life. Maybe you're having a rough time, and it's got nothing to do with me. Maybe in a few days time you'll be blasting that smile at me and suggesting we get beers together again.

My god, I hope so.

My god, I hope you never see this garbage, this flailing. Good thing you aren't here.

But I do love hearing you say my name.
Doesn't even matter the context.