Her hands are a mystery, like
My inability to relax, even though
I feel so comfortable with her.

No matter how many photos I see,
I can never know the feeling of
Our fingers interlocking, our palms
Pressed together; different but
Perfectly matched (or so
My imagination has it).

Surely this cannot be what
Bothers me in the same way
I have been bothered before.

With her, I feel closer to calm
Than I ever have before, and yet
That elusive peace remains out of reach
Of my disproportionately short fingers.

Perhaps the eternal need is to
Protect, even though she can
Take care of herself. I wish I knew
From what I wanted to protect her,
And why.

This is not an expression of love:
It is an expression of selfishness, of
Wanting to make her what I see
In my horribly perfectionist mind’s eye
That fails to understand that
She is perfect already.

Perhaps it is not her I seek to protect,
But me. Perhaps I fear the implications of
Her loveliness, and so I look for
Reasons to be disappointed.

But she has only every been
Entirely her. The only person in whom
I can be disappointed is myself,
For not learning to accept
Even the most wonderful humans
Exactly as they are.

05/22/2016

Posted on 07/19/2016
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