You make me wish I was a poet.
People always tell me, ”you always know just what to say.”
I’m sought after for advice; always another set of eyes.
My point of view is seemingly always valued,
Yet I find myself rendered speechless when it comes to you.
My feelings towards you are inexplicable.
The topic has become the ache that lingers in the space between my ribs.
Words I’m meant to say die when I try to articulate them, even internally.
No amount of classic literature or crappy cross-posted tumblr poetry could inspire a sentence that encompasses what goes through my head when I think of all the maybes.
I think if things had gone a little differently you’d be here, with me.
We’d lay in our bed, talking until the sun rises.
We’d make breakfast; pretending that we’ll get through the day but ending up tangled on the couch sleeping through the grocery shopping we had planned.
Later we’d be eating at one of those crappy diners you love,
The kind where the only server is an old lady and the line cook is likely on probation.
You always made us go at ungodly hours of the night, because, “That’s when it tastes the best.”
You’d pick at my hashbrowns even though you prefer homestyle fries. I’d steal some of your milkshake even though I’m lactose intolerant.
It’d be okay, because you always carry a lactaid, “Just in case.”
We would look at each other from opposite sides of a corner booth, the kind we always sit at because you know I feel the safest when I can see the whole room.
I’d pick at the seat cushion. It makes no real difference because the red pleather is falling apart from years of wear and tear.
We wouldn’t have to say those three words, because we already know it to be true. You feel it as deeply in your bones as I do.
Maybe then, I could tell you about the home you’ve made in my heart if I wanted to.
Perhaps I’ve made one in yours too.
Maybe then, I’d be able to find the words.
You make me wish I could. All I can do for now is make grammatical errors and hope you overlook them.
-N.S
Strangers Days 