I said it didn’t matter to me if we walked in the mud,
even though I saw myself, shortly after you’d leave,
on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet.
I said details were unimportant as I wrote down the glitter on your cheek
and the contour of your back in the book I have of you
in my mind. When I cared too much, I kept it from you
because you didn’t want me to be involved. When I kissed you
like I meant it, I laughed it off with the passing cars, pretending
that the moon was asleep in your eyes and the sun wasn’t blazing
in my heart. Saying goodbye was as easy as you let me make it;
me pretending to care more about the Sunday paper,
than the curve of your breasts I once held so gently
in my hands. I let it seem like I forgot you
said I made you feel like a woman
for the first time. I decided that when I read you Whitman
while you cleaned up the red wine with your tears, it didn’t matter.
Yet, I stand here now wanting to take back all that I took back
because real is what you make it. And the fear of this failing
is that you might mistake it--and all the words--for what I meant.

01/01/2000

Posted on 01/10/2012
Copyright © 2024 Rob Littler