Discomfort is a commonplace for me.
The awkwardness that flows from being here
With no idea, at least not one that's clear
Of why I am, or why I ought to be,
Is almost calming, paradoxically,
Because it is familiar. When you're near
I cannot be at ease, and yet I fear
I'm driven to be with you constantly
And therefore there's discomfort. If I try
To make myself relax, I find instead
My mind takes the unease my body had,
Leaving me a choice that seems to lie
Between two pains: external and inbred
Each too familiar and each almost sad.
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