I really like deep friendships,
to the point that I romanticize
because I want to deeply feel
about everybody who wants
to feel for me.
It’s hard to read about Elizabeth
and Charlotte, or realize maybe
Austen felt this same way, and
it’s why it holds my interest.
Maybe it’s Tolkien I need,
and I am Lewis, unbelieving.
I sought out a person, not a guy,
who could help me back to find
that center that I so desperately lack.
Your long curls, and piercing eyes
gave you somewhat of an exotic
look, and I approached before I’d
seen your face.
I thought you wanted a friend,
but you still haven’t separated out
which can stay and how much you
should tell them.
You told me
that you loved me.
I don’t ask because I want some
rom-com of an answer, some scripted
lines of someone who could be
Darcy himself. No.
I know the feel of truth
like the peeling of a scab,
or sometimes the heaviness
in my chest that loosens
when truth is expelled,
and I enjoy it better than any
high you could imagine.
Of all things that I am afraid,
confrontation is not one of them,
not when answers are given,
and unknown becomes known.