Remember how you refused to tell me to go? How you left puzzle pieces and dead-end mazes and riddles, all leading to a different part of what could have been a sweet, honest, gentle “I don’t want you.”
Remember how you came back? Twice?
Remember how I sent you away each time?
It’s true that I’m always right.
I know that you loved me, just as much as I loved you. I know that you thought yourself “too cool” for love. Too cool for faithfulness, for commitment, for eternity.
I’m so glad that you miss me.
I’m so glad that it doesn’t matter to me.
You showed me your face a whole one time. I knew you for three years prior. And I already knew I’d find you beautiful.
You’re the best person I know. You’re a graceful wreck. But you clean up nicely every time. You dust off the debris. You hold yourself up by tendons and with fractured bones, and you stand strong somehow, quivering, shaking, holding your ground. Shining.
You’re a bright, unabashed sun and I turn my face toward you to feel love. To feel benevolence. Something in your soul improves everything it touches.
When you’re ugly, you’re ugly. But no one can be beautiful all the time.
You’re rarely wrong.
I think I love you. I think I’ll never tell you. I think I wanna talk to you more. Maybe someday you’d tell me first.