I think I’m a line
and you’re a squiggle.
When I met you,
you talked—
self-made audition —
and I looked to see your
real.
You professed yourself
happy
to support me
in my steady line
whilst I supported them,
the little ones.
Things worked,
but you ironed yourself flat
just to sit alongside.
Then your line bent,
became tired
from pretend.
It wanted bold and unpredictable swirls,
jagged edges!
Mine wanted to
gently sway at the most,
glide like a calm, smiley river
for them.
We would have been easier
with the real
you-shape
from the beginning.
If our lines
went in the
same direction.
Why contort yourself?