Can you forgive me? I was twenty-two
and infatuated with my own views of the crowd.
I had my theories of who-was-who and what-was-her-name
and held conclusions, too, of you.
I knew, for instance, that you made me nervous
to be in my own skin in front of your wide-eyed wit.
You were, I determined, opaque. So,
it was your fault that time you took me
to the movies, and I felt no right to ask
why we were there, together. I accepted
it, your matter-of-fact and concise way
of inviting me out to a film we both wanted to see.
It was a comedy and in so many scenes, I wanted
to turn to you and ask if what I suspected were true;
to turn to you and turn to you and turn
to the heat of your thigh that melted mine.
You were quick to fluster me--my skin, how it whirled
in the presence of such a puzzle that was you.
Did you know what the dark held between us, then?

07/29/2009

Posted on 07/29/2009
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