signing off
I.
It was dinner time when I wrote him a note.
Pulled out a pen and covered one, two
sky-colored sticky notes
front and back with neatly printed marks.
You’re a great friend to have. Stay in touch.
Phrase it as a fact, write it as an order.
Finally finding the courage in my quick-beating heart to
be upfront, straightforward --
a heady rush of newfound strength.
To approach,
but not to ask if he feels the same,
and never to know what might happen if he did.
(Cover it all up in friendship terms,
can’t let on,
can’t let go.)
II.
Sometimes he’ll give a smile, sometimes hey, how are you.
Sometimes a hug.
Sometimes not even a pale blue glance. Scan the room,
find him, anticipation rising... and I feel the drop, the
b
u
m
p
back to earth.
Out of orbit,
having found him,
but not the version of him I wish I could see
always.
III.
Tonight he doesn’t seem to notice
me, standing behind him.
He sits at the other end of the table. I filter out
conversations of college, scholarships,
futures planned out with certainty.
Straight, unyielding rulers,
A neat blue horizon, swept free of clouds and rain.
I consider forcing my way nearby.
Decide otherwise.
Pull up at the table’s opposite end.
a friend to my left, another facing across.
Half-full plate pushed aside, a stack of sky-blue sticky notes
peel off one by one.
(I couldn’t tell him everything -- blue-eyed boy
with the clear horizon and unwavering resolve.)
Maybe he’ll find and read them,
Maybe he won’t.
It’s the best I can do,
It’s the closest I’ll come.
So I left the notes,
on a shelf marked with his name.
Left my uncharted future in other hands,
and turned, not backwards, but
forward and onward,
to the cloudy blue horizon --
with this, I’m signing off.
(Maybe he found and read them,
Maybe he didn’t.
It’s the best I could do,
The closest I came.)
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