Last time

Last time I vowed that
the next time I see you,
it won't be a big deal,
it'll be OK and I'll smile -

But I forgot that seeing you
is more than just looking;
it's hearing a voice I grew fond of,
it's watching you move and smile,
it's having to say something
that doesn't crack down the middle
when I offer it up and feel it leave my lips -

And it's feeling the ache
of wanting to touch you but knowing
I can't go there
it's the fullness of remembering
everything that went before
and trying to make up for the gap
in small, timid steps;
it's wanting warmth but pining heat
and fearing being burnt;
it's loneliness with the antidote
standing in front of me
but locked, simultaneously, away.

If you were to ask me
how I am -
so many answers come to mind,
too many, too late, too lost.
I can, and probably will,
say "I'm good"
but that explains nothing,
gives me nothing,
gives you nothing,
and shrivels like some desiccated flower,
then trampled, then forgotten.

I want all the time
to sit and be where we were before
knowing that now is not the time
to be wishing such things.

I can wish myself luck,
and you happiness,
and both of us grace,
but I can't wish away
that past fact of us together
feeling so tenderly happy
and now so sharply hurt.