Before you is hard to remember.
I cannot seemingly separate myself
from who I was and
who I am now. Or even how long I will stay this way.
Those folks on park benches, observing the
world through accents and footnotes
might see me differently–
a subtle release of the shoulders or
a loosing of the jaw. All just revelations I refute in the mirror to myself.
perhaps the world has changed.
Perhaps, everything else
This notion feels both isolating
reminiscent of love I suppose.
Before you, I held the future
like a wallflower held a dance.
But you threw it at me nevertheless.
And I ate it and puked it up.
And laughed and rolled
in its beauty,
and the mess of my becoming.
Before you, I cannot seem to remember
how deeply I feared myself and
what it meant to avoid my gifts.
Before you, the edge of my life
was my death. My own chosen escape.
Always waiting with patience.
Before you, I was a son of a bitch in ways I thought
I was great. This was a sad, and now laughable, misconception.
And all of this rubs me the wrong way,
it feels strange to say before you,
because all those folks with folded arms may see my shoulders
differently. And they are not wrong–no one is.
To them you were never really here.
But to me, you will never really leave.