You bother me like a person who simply can’t understand. I break my ideas down to child speak and still there is no clear semblance. When you see me in the morning, in presence of other you seem different. Have I not nurtured you? Did I not give you when I had nothing? Did I not dance with you even when you turned and looked away?
I wonder how many clever ways I can explain or express what I feel—or at least what I felt. When you selectively endear me and somehow on most fundamental of bases feed my erasure, how do you explain that you care about me? How can you claim friendship even platonically? I’ve shielded the bitter cold from reaching your sweet skin. I’ve held you when you had nothing left. Not to protect your pride but to protect you.
I forsook myself to make you whole and still—that look. Those eyes.