It's like writing with my left hand,
Or putting on a shoe on the other foot first,
It feels wrong.

It's like taking the last piece of cake,
Or stealing a lingering glance at a homeless man,
It feels wrong.

It's like twisting open a child safety cap,
Or buttoning my shirt bottom-up,
It feels wrong.

It's like me wanting to talk to you,
Or waking in the morning to thoughts of you,
It feels wrong.

It's like me relentlessly wondering,
And everyone else has since ceased,
It feels wrong.

It's like me moving on,
It feels wrong.