preparationing.

I am trainwheeling myself to miss you,
talking myself into knowing I’ll soon likely
never see you again. too dramatic?
well, perhaps some someday should arrive
when we cross ragged paths again, and until
then your name shall be cross-stitched upon
the quilt of my heart. no no,
it is not the only name there, there are others,
you’ll be relieved to know. yet not many.
not many have lingered tall over me like you,
aimed a sharp toe arrowstraight at my jelly knees,
held a warm hand against the downy place where
necknape bends to meet a ringing skull. well what?
you talk too much, give yourself so freely
and I am nothing of the type. I’ll remember
this too: the way you traced my faults
in thick black ink, but never did circle them in red. no
emphasis in italics or lines running under as always
I have done. It is one thing to be worshipped
pure as Beatrice, another to be seen ugly guts inside out
and still soul-admired. I should award you a medal
for such valiance in friendship, a ribbon to pin to
your breast, right over the heart that sways to a rhythm
I could never quite guess. and it was never love—
no nothing like that. only
an imperfect understanding, a sixth-sense
certainty you’d catch me if these limbs launched
insurrection and finally broke free. after all, I tried
to play the safe one, wise one, grounded & deliberate;
though we both know it’s all lies told very badly. both
child and ancient hermit in your presence. and soon I’ll
no longer have chance to stand in your calm shadow, so
I’m teaching myself how to miss you, though it’s surely
nothing that can be found in books and books are all
I really can know. but. you know that too.