September 2018

Dear P,

I find myself drinking to numb what I’m unsuccessfully denying –
that I truly do want you in my life.
I know this means me as the man in your life.
A life you’ve created on your own and one that I’m learning,
as I’m growing, to cherish and honor as much as my own.
These stones I carry, heavy with the past of my misgivings,
become easy when sleeping I hold you tenderly.
With our foreheads touching – pressed in a loving
tête-à-tête that is telling of Shakespeare’s best musings.
All this happened so quickly in this head of mine
that rarely believes such possibility much less a real beginning.
So truly I see what might be – those things in your life
in close immediacy to mine.
If asked of this from a younger me,
I might not be so earnestly forthcoming.
The luxury of youth fleeting.
Your hand in mine a sign that the world is still steady.
A dot, pale and blue, that I never knew held intimacy.
This part of me that you now see.
Those moments of us yet to be
become dense with vulnerability;
but these insecurities fade when, as one with you,
I learn to love completely.


I resented you a bit.
Leaving as you did.
I faltered a bit.
Remnants that once hid.
The irony of proximity
with your face to mine
is hard to breach.
This almost treatise
between us teases
at what could be.

What once I drew from.
Numb with years.
What once you grew from.
Sums my fears.
The needless pageantry
of reasoning.
I want you.
But you may
not see that
as possibility.

You resented me a bit.
Watching you walk amid
the midnight motes
swaying a bit under
the moonless grid
of our parting.
I think of you.
With the hope
of impossiblity.
I resented you a bit.