R A N D O M #2.5 / by D.M. Jerman

Last night the songs in the bar downstairs are antique and romantic. The DJ says last call. Everything is louder in the quiet after I've climbed out of your car and back up into my apartment.

I lay beside a drafty window watching light snow and listen to the street, and my stomach aches for more than one reason. I am not drunk at all, but can't close my eyes for long. I prepare my mind for an extended dream session featuring our bodies burning apart. Ripped by fusion.

Among days prior I have called your name aloud while masturbating, then come hard and fast.

I have flirted with you effortlessly in afternoon daydreams. Bittersweet things that can never happen. Not really.

Any follow thru on this throb discloses a fallout that would crumble the better half of my heart.

A stupid crush. I have a brainless crush on you...

I know better. And anyhow I've been here before. The flirt semi-satisfying, stilted... What is left to say into the cool open pool of your eyes like so much polished midnight. Lean into my ear and tell me something else. Anything. I love closeness and touch. Hide me in a place where it's safe to kiss me, but don't. Take me away from my breath that would form words that would give me away. Let me cry in a corner for some brand of relief that won't undo itself. I find myself hoping you'll text me one last time before the evening is out. So many messages in a conversation that never stops. There's an exhaustive pressure in this confession that flattens my gaze and makes me ill. Desire/allure/sensuality. They are my personal hubris. I hide them so well until I can't. I talk with my husband about all this and he is steady and good. His heart wide open and calming to me. Why lie? It feels good to say it. So many times things like this go unsaid, and maybe that's alright, because everything works out for the best in the end...

I know better. And anyhow I've been here before. The flirt semi-satisfying, stilted...

What is left to say into the cool open pool of your eyes like so much polished midnight. Lean into my ear and tell me something else. Anything. I love closeness and touch. Hide me in a place where it's safe to kiss me, but don't. Take me away from my breath that would form words that would give me away. Let me cry in a corner for some brand of relief that won't undo itself.

I find myself hoping you'll text me one last time before the evening is out. So many messages in a conversation that never stops.

There's an exhaustive pressure in this confession that flattens my gaze and makes me ill. Desire/allure/sensuality. They are my personal hubris. I hide them so well until I can't. I talk with my husband about all this and he is steady and good. His heart wide open and calming to me.

Why lie? It feels good to say it.
So many times things like this go unsaid, and maybe that's alright, because everything works out for the best in the end...

A long long while ago when looking for roommates I found a great house but knew I couldn't move in because I was immediately attracted to one of the men that lived there. If only life was full of more easily-dodgable bullets such as this. I wish you would get a girlfriend so I could just watch her be in love with you instead. It's not love but it could so easily be that it nearly makes me mad. Clichéd and embarassing. Let this all be a stroke to your ego, but know, even as I want to, I can't be social with you in good conscience anymore. To know if you felt the same way about me, in even a small way, this might give me some comfort (or perhaps the opposite?), but it would only be a reciprocated ego stroke. And then what? Any and all consequences yawn into unhappiness. So please. Forgive me.


A long long while ago when looking for roommates I found a great house but knew I couldn't move in because I was immediately attracted to one of the men that lived there. If only life was full of more easily-dodgable bullets such as this.

I wish you would get a girlfriend so I could just watch her be in love with you instead. It's not love but it could so easily be that it nearly makes me mad. Clichéd and embarassing.

Let this all be a stroke to your ego, but know, even as I want to, I can't be social with you in good conscience anymore. To know if you felt the same way about me, in even a small way, this might give me some comfort (or perhaps the opposite?), but it would only be a reciprocated ego stroke.

And then what?

Any and all consequences yawn into unhappiness.

So please. Forgive me.