Listening

I remember quite vividly the moment
you realized that you’d outgrown me.
It was winter, cold, evening and you
were in a sports bra and underwear.
You weren’t trying to be sexy...
Just comfortable.
Apparently, I made that difficult.


Flashback to the day we met:
I stopped you in the hallway,
leaned in front of you,
hand against the wall,
with swagger that I hadn’t earned.
I made you uncomfortable then too.
It was a different kind.
You giggled nervously.
I talked over you.
Why did I talk over you?


Maybe if I had listened to you then,
I’d have known that you liked to sleep
beneath the sheets, not on top.
That you didn’t need saving,
but you always carried your inhaler,
just in case...


I’d have known that you wouldn’t wait forever
for me to grow up, despite what seemed
to be your immeasurable patience.


You stood on a bridge once,
holding my guitar against your chest,
and I took pictures.
You asked me if I played,
And I told you “not the guitar.”
I thought that I was clever...
Now, I wish I could remember
how it felt to be held by you like that.


The night we went back,
drove out to the end of Rock Quarry,
I tried to convince you to go against
everything you believed in.
It’s no wonder that you left me standing
bewildered and alone, in front of
the Tiger Hotel, still wearing
that same swagger that never fit me
in the first place.


I am not naive enough to believe that you’ve
forgiven me for those bottom-bottle nights.
But I hope that I can make it up to you
with early morning sunrises, breakfast in bed,
balconies, and lukewarm tea.


This crossroads we’ve come too isn’t perfect,
but it’s where we’ve always meant to meet.
In the middle, minds and arms open wide.


Distance makes the heart grow fonder,
and mine seems to still love yours an awful lot.
It’s nice to see you smile again,
won’t you sit and tell me about your day?