Fond

I wait, silent in the dark, with outstretched
fingers hovering the in space between.
You are at once so near and so distant.
What do I await? No one knows, for no
response comes from you, the sleeping figure.
It isn't accurate to say I watch,
because it's too dark to see, but I know
how vulnerable you are, even if
you don't believe vulnerability
could be in you, even though you believe
I'm the weak one, and I want to guard you.
I reach out with my hand--nothing happens;
you don't turn toward me. As in the daytime,
when I reach for you, I am rejected.
Here, in your sleep, I know your true soul shows:
the way you instinctively turn away,
move away from my hands, says what you won't.
I question the impartiality
of gods who manufacture or allow
these cruel mockeries--it's hard enough
in daylight to be close yet forbidden
to touch, and at night, it's unbearable.
I may never burn for you, but I ache;
we could be quite fond of one another
if you would only seek my affection.