I saw you standing by the door as I swayed and rocked on the dance floor. The music was familiar, I could follow the rhythm, the melody; it seemed to be the missing part of me-- my unspoken sorrow, and sexuality.
You seemed immature. I didn’t try to understand what you were saying. Your offered hand, I rejected. I thought you were adolescent, smirky trying to shock, pretending to be *****. It didn’t make me feel like being flirty. In fact, you reminded me of everything I despised. I couldn’t see the pain in your eyes or peel away the lies to hear the truth that you were saying.
A few decades later, here we are. I’ve now found myself hitched to your star. Do I now understand who you are– or did you change-- older, wiser, the pretense gone?
I”m so sorry to arrive at this party so late. Forgive me– I was blind, I was deaf, I needed someone to hate.