I needed
everything wrong about the sadness in
your smile where
you sat, calm,
buttoned-up,
and cross legged in
your innocence.
I’ve carried
you under my skin in every
second of every
minute of every
lifetime since then, swallowed
you as every pill
and then cutting open
my skin to place
you within, soothe this wound,
you left, angry,
persistent.

I’ve searched for
you in the eyes
of every
man
while trying to make sense
both of the women
you’ve been with
and the man
you’ve seemed
to become since then –
everything wrong
and just doesn’t fit.

What then, what then
in every universe
and every single
might have been
in every single touch of
your hand, is she
paper doll
or simpleton or,
like me,
is she close as
you can get,
or even as far away
from our madness to keep
you tethered
safely to the surface.

I created
you – wrote every version
you’ve been.
And who
you are now is easy –
a businessman
a boyfriend,
mowing grass, entertaining,
growing beard, brewing beers
in your cellar
to share with friends,
discussing the game, or standing
for a bit in silence, same
as here but over there, same
as America
but so British,
proper and safe,
congratulations –
you’ve achieved
well-adjusted gentleman.

If so, it’s better off
we don’t
talk anymore
because
nothing good
can come of it.