uncomfortable-i notice everything there is to notice about you

I'm uncomfortable with being uncomfortable for making you uncomfortable.

I won't lie to you,
I notice everything there is to notice about you.

The dilation of your pupils to different heads, those fidgeting fingers, the tapping of the leg, all the way down to the hairs behind your neck.

They stand up in different angles, marking what you feel about each individual—
the indifference, the discomfort, the hate—it's all
so
precise.

Your foot, the way it's dragging behind your ankle with each increasing second of silence in a procession of talkers.

I don't mean to steal your defeat of hyper-anxiety through psychotherapy; it's just that I can't help myself. I record the slightest change in your chest by catching breath.

I see you checking your stomach through peripheral vision to see if it is in the right order before you enter. I see you stretch your ears back to get your face in its most pretty phase.

You don't know you're writing my bloodless genes in metaphase
because

I see you. I don't stop seeing you.
The minuscule occurrings of you in motion are in my head post-day as I walk home,
during class, sculpting a dome.

I at last look away in respect of your privacy
because it's too much, the inconsistency of this
intimacy.

And it is really in your best interest to not peek mine, for I might just look into your eyes, and a second is all it will take when I'll make you
mine.

Indeed, I will lose all inventory of self-identity as my limbs morph into a mirror of yours,
leaving everything
behind.

But, I forebear this demonic beat, this psychotic need,
for it is inherently
good.

And the fact remains that the discomfort of your shrinking pupils as they lose their circularity keeps my blood

pumping.

I won't lie to you, I sort of

    l
   i
    k
        e

    i
     t