Torture
Sitting here, thinking of you,
it’s like Chinese water torture.
You know of it, I’m sure–
the type of torture which involves
water dripping slowly and steadily onto
your forehead. That’s all, no
bamboo shoots up the fingernails
or anything gruesome like that,
just a steady…dripping…of…water.
That steady dripping, a process
you can’t stop, drives you crazy
eventually. It’s psychological.
If you’re lucky, you don’t lose your
mind. That’s what it’s like for me
right now, sitting here, thoughts
of you dripping onto my brain
like water onto the forehead.
It’s torture, thinking of your face,
your hands, your smile, every perfect
part of you. There is no grinning
torture administrator standing over me,
his Fu Manchu mustache drooping over his
lower lip, and I am not in a dirty, dimly
lit cell somewhere in the South Pacific.
Instead, there is just you, the
prettiest torturer ever, smiling
down at my prostrate form on your
pristine torture table, wondering what
I am thinking about, not knowing that
I am thinking of you.
