there’s something about the way
I can’t quite match my stride
to yours—

I reach and reach

but can never quite

keep up

it’s not that my legs aren’t long enough,
it’s not that I don’t want to match my step
to yours

do you reckon my Robert Frost
was ever a match for your Plato?
or my Dickinson
to your Cicero ?

the stars still shine in your smile
and if I find myself a little behind
I hope you’ll take me by the hand
and pull me close.