1..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and i show up early,
not quite knowing who it is
that i’m looking for
i don’t recognize her,
when she walks in the door,
twelve years younger than my 27,
but she knows me right away
i don’t mention the leather jacket
over the large sweater, surely impractical
for the summer heat, but we both
know what she’s still hiding,
and will continue to do so
for the next three years
we both order something iced and
a little too sweet, and it worries me
when she refuses the blueberry scone i
get for us to share
this won’t end for another four years, and i
almost tell her about the therapist we go to,
that actually sees, listens, and helps, that would
have walked me to the restaurant if i had asked
but that’s not my place, and she isn’t ready
to hear that yet, so i smile and thank her
when she compliments the tattoos
on both of my arms
she knows i’m working to hide something, too,
doesn’t ask if i ever miss it, can tell i do,
when it’s darker than i know how to
handle on my own
i tell her i like the purple hair, and she
says the gray starting to pepper my sideburns
is something she thought she’d never see
when looking in the mirror
we hug when she has to leave,
i say i never hated her,
and she says she knows
2..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and both show
up early this time
he is eleven years younger than
my 27, barely a month shy of
relearning how to live, and not
just as a boy
he wants to know how long
we’ve been on testosterone, when
we got top surgery, and excitedly points
out the adam’s apple that thickened vocal
cords produced when our voice dropped
i order us the same drinks again,
and feel no small amount of relief
when he accepts the blueberry scone,
even if he only eats half
there are things i want to ask,
that i know he won’t answer,
and reassurances i want to give that
will only sound like platitudes to the
me that is still a teenager
i walk him out,
this time around, and almost
ask if he’s taking the same bus
that i am
we hug again, and i hold
him a little bit longer,
knowing it’s needed at that
point in our life
he steps back to get a better look
at me, in my short-sleeved work shirt
and shorts to show off the tattoos on
both of my knees, asks,
“are you, are we, happy?”
grinning, crooked, chipped teeth and all,
i tell him, “we are. we’re happy”
he grins back, says, “good,”
and waves before turning to
walk away
watching him, i notice that we’re
wearing the same boots, and
realize that she was, too
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 10:25 PM UTC
1..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and i show up early,
not quite knowing who it is
that i’m looking for
i don’t recognize her,
when she walks in the door,
twelve years younger than my 27,
but she knows me right away
i don’t mention the leather jacket
over the large sweater, surely impractical
for the summer heat, but we both
know what she’s still hiding,
and will continue to do so
for the next three years
we both order something iced and
a little too sweet, and it worries me
when she refuses the blueberry scone i
get for us to share
this won’t end for another four years, and i
almost tell her about the therapist we go to,
that actually sees, listens, and helps, that would
have walked me to the restaurant if i had asked
but that’s not my place, and she isn’t ready
to hear that yet, so i smile and thank her
when she compliments the tattoos
on both of my arms
she knows i’m working to hide something, too,
doesn’t ask if i ever miss it, can tell i do,
when it’s darker than i know how to
handle on my own
i tell her i like the purple hair, and she
says the gray starting to pepper my sideburns
is something she thought she’d never see
when looking in the mirror
we hug when she has to leave,
i say i never hated her,
and she says she knows
2..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and both show
up early this time
he is eleven years younger than
my 27, barely a month shy of
relearning how to live, and not
just as a boy
he wants to know how long
we’ve been on testosterone, when
we got top surgery, and excitedly points
out the adam’s apple that thickened vocal
cords produced when our voice dropped
i order us the same drinks again,
and feel no small amount of relief
when he accepts the blueberry scone,
even if he only eats half
there are things i want to ask,
that i know he won’t answer,
and reassurances i want to give that
will only sound like platitudes to the
me that is still a teenager
i walk him out,
this time around, and almost
ask if he’s taking the same bus
that i am
we hug again, and i hold
him a little bit longer,
knowing it’s needed at that
point in our life
he steps back to get a better look
at me, in my short-sleeved work shirt
and shorts to show off the tattoos on
both of my knees, asks,
“are you, are we, happy?”
grinning, crooked, chipped teeth and all,
i tell him, “we are. we’re happy”
he grins back, says, “good,”
and waves before turning to
walk away
watching him, i notice that we’re
wearing the same boots, and
realize that she was, too
