Shaking

I wanted him to grab me.  To shake me.  To care.  And he's inside himself.  And he's looking out windows.  And I'm staring at him and admiring without focus, the line of his side profile.  I'm soaking in what I will lose if he does not turn his head back to me.  I know he will not turn.  So I grab him, the middle console denting my hip, my thumbs finding the curve between his ear and jawline, with my lips pressed to his.  And he's laughing, a nervous laugh that terrifies me, makes me want to stop - oh, but I can't stop, I can't stop because --

I wanted him.  I wanted him to want me.  I wanted contact.  I don't know what to do about that.  About wanting contact.

I feel like I'm going crazy.  It's all a huge stutter.  I can't get a thing out.

So, I kiss him, unable to deepen a kiss when he cannot kiss through his nervousness.  I hug him.  I squeeze him.  I'd shake him, but I'm still waiting to be shaken.  As I'm shaking.

I will wait.  He says I can talk until I'm blue in the face.  What matters is what happens from here.  I don't want to use the goodbye I had prepared.  Shake me.

"Sitting, Waiting, Wishing." by Jack Johnson.