Weak

You make me such a schoolboy
palpating rhythms within my chest
oxygen leaving my lungs like a hole in space.
Flick me a stare–
was that look I saw in the lenses of your eyes
the look of the decoding of my face against your memory?
The twitch of your moustache
the Instamatic moment when the poles of your mouth glided up
the brief salute of the fingers by the temples on your head I so long to kiss–
Or was it the plastered face
of a man who was simply in the third hour of the workday
and I, only the four-hundredth and twenty-second blurred face that has passed by him?

Either way, I haven’t felt this weak–
knee-knocking, staggering down the sidewalk,
forcing myself to not glance back at the one who makes me surprisingly, achingly weak.