We have made another crucial vow to be
"better" to each other.
It requires your need for control and
my abandonment issues be named and kept at bay.

It means bigger words and reminding each other
of our ages: "so grown up now, aren't we?"

At a more idealistic time I thought finality
meant contentedness and comfort,
not so terminal, just "if you were here, you would be home now"
and a welcome mat, fresh fruit on the kitchen island.

All those other loose-end lovers would
tie each other up in neatly-raveled spools
and fall compactly into linen-closet shoe-boxes
to be taken out on rainy nights in tenderness.

But what do I make of you,
screeching at an anxious halt in my driveway
on a Sunday afternoon, breathless
to talk and explain to me all the things
we are and have been.

You, clutching a mug of steaming tea to your chest,
me fumbling with buttons on a sleeve,
how do we reconcile now the
task of letting go or holding on
or doing whatever is most appropriate
out of respect?
Or
all the other stupid words for growth.

Why is grief the only thing I can ever feel?
Why do I shy from joy so effortlessly?
Why are you and every other healthy choice I've ever made
so poorly linked?

All I have are questions.
All I have is knowing you from the inside out.
All I have is wanting all but what I have and

it's still...
still so out of reach.

11/07/2017

Posted on 11/07/2017
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer