Her, Her, But Him

It's an evening rain
I long
to touch sensitivity in my hand,
give it just a lightest tickle
to tell me how I feel, really.

She's here, for the taking,
but it's only his attention that I want.

She's whole,
yet she's my means and passover
to the other side I deem my home and happy place.

He's listening to this,
my play on words built up a scene.
He can't tell I'm acting,
neither can I,
so we sit and wait, an eager audience,
though the difference is I'm playing.

I'm playing him.
That guy, man, do I even know his lines?
They just seem to come up
without a prompt and cue and I say them
out loud, by his radar ear.
My fear, bubbling away discreet, streets
down - I'm running away gunning
for reality.

One shot, it's dead, I'm dead.
It remains,
but there's blood everywhere
and rubble
and underneath the shattered structures of trust
lies the culprit bomb, impending,
suspiciously vacant.

I want him. I can't have him.
I am him. I don't know him.
I want her to get to him.
I'll hurt her.
I can't have her, nor her eyes.
I still want him, my brother.
I want the truth, these lies.

And all for completion.
God, what am I doing?
If there's no doubt as to what lies ahead,
why am I seeing double?
And actually, what am I to do,
who am I to be,
that I don't turn away each time
fear talks back to me?