"I wish I was happier," she
confessed, to me, in-between
puffs and awkward silent
pauses.
"I'm not disappointed," was
all I could say, forcing
back down my throat, the "me too."
We stood there, in quiet,
surrounded by loudness. The other
few, ate, and drinking inside.
Goes back in, she kisses him.
What does he know?
Answer?
More than he's liable to make known.
I can't look at her. If I do,
I'm caught-in-love, and
stuck on the possibilities.
If my eyes can avoid you, my
dreams can stay fantasy,
not just unfulfilled.
She's tired of hearing she's perfect.
She'd rather be told the truth.
but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot.
And I'm sick of love, lying, and
truth-telling, too.
I wish you were happier.
I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out,
before you.
I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together.
I wish I could make happy,
like some folks brew beer.
I'd pour you a growler,
(On the house, of course)
and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it.
This poem is the list of
things I never thought could
make a difference.
This poem is the litany of reasons why
I think I deserve one
last chance.
This poem is the one I'd
read to you every night, if
it would change your
mind.
It wouldn't. It won't.
This poem bites, the last dying
hope of a beached shark, spying
the wave that could save it.
This poem is the black pods
we once foolishly believed were
shark eggs.
This poem knows I hate the beach,
and brought me along,
anyway.
I started this poem months ago.
It'll never really be finished.