The first time, you turned down
the radio so you wouldn’t have to
yell, and I knew we were in for
a ride. What didn’t I know
after three hours? Your taste
in men—me I thought.
So I knew details about
who you dated in high school
and how you were accosted in Paris.
The singing of your voice
made every detail dance in my
head. I had no inkling
you would someday sing for
me in bed. What did
I know after three hours?
Maybe I knew the future.
There’s a certain something when I’m with you.
I mean almost a certain nothing. Comfort,
recognition, intimacy. Whatever
it is, I feel it with you. We
are better together than not. I can tell
you anything, even if it hurts, and I
can listen, too. You
are as beautiful as I can make
you feel. Does it feel beautiful?
Sometimes I wonder if you even know;
sometimes I wonder if I show you enough.
I’d show you everything if I could—everything
I could. But what do we want from one
another? Everything? Tough to say.
So sometimes I don’t say anything. Or maybe
that’s all I need to say to let you know
because I think you do already.