Months later as I ponder over all
that you were right about,
and all that I was right about, too,
I can’t help but wonder how
two people
that were so right could be so wrong.
After shamelessly dissecting each waking moment
from the first time I saw you across that crowded restaurant
to our series of wrestling matches and late night talks regarding our pasts
and the future that awaited us,
to the last time I bitterly, with tear-filled eyes, shook your hand goodbye,
I’ve concluded that everything said
was of the utmost truth
(with a few exceptions, of course)
and that your love for me was more genuine than most.
So why is it that I am asking myself this question for the
hundredth time
as I sit on my balcony watching the sun rise to the tips of the
dead, filemot colored hills after another
sleepless night?
Maybe we were too right.
Like two pieces of a puzzle that fit too tightly to be a match
no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together.
One always overpowering the other.
And so back we’re thrown into the vast pile of pieces,
perhaps finding each other again,
but never truly fitting until we realize that
maybe we weren’t so right after all.