I used to know you were in the kitchen before I entered. Not because I could hear you.
Picked at each string in hesitation of your heat and heavyweight.
Took interest in your rage at it all – not all unjustified.
The dining chairs were always more present, more uncomfortable.
I felt the delicate fold of my fingers, and the flow of my downcast gaze,
Felt my own frailty like I was meant to.
I think I hoped my language would touch you in fellowship,
But you were deaf to it.
I signified only weakness and you echoed at my stare.
When we laughed together, I saw a boy in you.
At the time, it was to much to ask, for you to see the girl in me.