A Poem for T.

lonely photo.jpg

T.—

for you

everything will always be a little out of reach

 

You grew up wishing to have what you didn’t

and

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,

sourly,

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

 

T.—

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

you

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