A Poem for T.

lonely photo.jpg


for you

everything will always be a little out of reach


You grew up wishing to have what you didn’t


now you wish to have what you already do


I met you when our baby faces

gave away our innocence

as much as we tried to play it cool

when we were volcanoes inside


We were still full of naïve verve

back then,

full of a hope

that was like a blind trust

in the justice of a world we’d never really seen;

we closed our eyes

and that was the first thing we did wrong—

we didn’t look both ways—

and that hope, that blind trust, became a lifeline

that we hung to by a thread,

and each fiber of that thread,

like the fibers of the thin veils we wore over our vulnerabilities,

threatened to unravel the weave

from which it jutted

like a finger

the world could always pull


We flew on gossamer kite-strings

that a sharp wind could cut

and when we fell we only scraped our elbows and knees

because that was all we were


You and I

had differences

that could precipitate

into a warm thing

that we could love and keep—

but the chemical reaction

no longer works

because our differences

have changed


You’ve aged not like a wine

but a vinegar that needs boiling

to be sweet again—

there’s still hope

if you’ll take the chance


You once said that it was hard for you

to open up to others

and then you said,


that others didn’t appreciate your value


I’ve given you chances to open up

(so many)

but I’ve also learned that you’re secretive

and sensitive

and nosy



your comfort zone will be your coffin;

don’t die in its circumference


You look for things—and look at things—

for what they’re worth to you

(like we all do, in some way)

but you turn it into a value

with your own absurd exchange rate

and now, look—you lie depressed in your bed

because you have nothing left,

no one,

no real friends


And yet it still never crosses your mind

that it’s because of



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