Far be it from me to say I understand your situation.
What fills up your time so completely
that I’m the one that ends up getting left in the dark?
How many hours of Netflix have you watched
that could be me sitting beside you in silence?
I’m not saying tell me every detail, just let me
play with your hair for a while.
Or maybe we can catch a movie and let fictional ordeals
become our primary distracting care?
Decompress over work with late night McDonald’s runs,
I’ll be your perfect puppy.
Or talk to me and discover how resistant I am
to anything with the word “inconvenience.”
Hours in the parking lot waiting for you to get off work are fine
and if they aren’t, I’ll know with enough time for a warning
I’ll always make sure you get home.
But did those few times of selfish withholdings
stress you to the point of a nervous breakdown?
Have I looked at this wrong, and only now
as I write these words, understand your compassion?
Maybe you really did do the right thing,
just in the wrong way
and I’m too caught up in a being a human being
to recognize the caged love singing.
Do I write healing into my soul with every pen and keystroke?
If we could just talk and lay it all out,
maybe a magic word makes it all better?
That you were too afraid of my gut reaction
you tried a drive-by
and hit it dead center?
Maybe just the smallest effort
is all that’s needed to make the difference
between love and hate?