Incertitude
I'm thinking about you again,
though unwillingly, incessantly.
As I lay in the summer heat,
and bathe in the humidity,
my impatient and restless mind
reconsiders events long past.
Rejected, your advances plague me
more now than then.
Cool afternoons and evenings
spent in pursuit of adventure
and, ironically, spontaneity,
lead to wasted midsummer middays
of pensive consideration,
wistful conversations,
and blatant suggestions.
Subtlety is no virtue.
But perpetual pondering
results in justified self-doubt.
Am I truly regretting decisions,
doubting judgment,
questioning morals?
Or is it merely
Summer Boredom setting in?
Olivia
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