Tension

 
Last night my hands and feet turned cold with fear!
Had you been there, I wouldn't have been afraid, I'm certain.
Even drowning with you in the deepest sea, I wouldn't feel the least bit scared.


Tell me, why can't I stop loving you?
Why can't I stop seeing you?
Why can't I stop writing to you?
Why can't I stop talking with you?


Why do I sulk with you for reasons and no reasons?
Why do I write such nonsense without any cause?
Why do I rage at myself, then calm myself down again?
Why can't I bear even the smallest slight from you?
Why do I want to have you exactly as I wish?
Why do I find joy thinking of you as my very own person?
Why do I worry about what you write, or don't write?
Why do some of your writings fill me with anger, hurt, resentment?
Why am I becoming so utterly you-centered?
Each time I speak of going away, why do I come even closer instead?
Knowing you are heartless, so very heartless, why do I still feel tenderness for you?


You tell me—
how shall I pull myself away from all this!
If you can't suggest even one proper way,
then tell me—will you keep me with the deepest care?