When I look at you.

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.


One thought on “When I look at you.

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