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February 2007 About the time I fell in love with my best friend, written long after falling out of said love. |
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At night your hair was a black tangle of roots (or maybe an octopus). I read until I could hardly breathe (or maybe think). In your illness and stupor you whimpered softly (or maybe sharply). In any case I failed to resist: I turned and looked at you sleeping on the floor (or maybe dreaming.) Between the sound and your hair I realized that maybe – no – (maybe I love you.) If I’d had an ounce of courage I would have whispered you a story (or maybe a lullaby) that you wouldn’t have heard. But I’d have smoothed your hair aside (and maybe stayed my hand) on your head, for comfort. I’d have told you of moths (or maybe the moon), of sun on poppies red-orange as veins in a nectarine (but maybe not blood). I’d have told you of singing white visions that crashed louder than doors (or maybe snowflakes) On the floor by your head; I’d have told you how I saved a damsel in distress from captivity in a tower (or maybe just a road sign). All while you slept. I’d have told you how I read (or maybe distracted) to myself until I had to turn around and look at you, hair a liquid tangle of roots (or maybe an octopus). I’d have told you then, as you know now, that I was in love with you – (Maybe a long time ago.) |