fretting

i think you would like me
the way you liked me three years ago
confusingly, obtusely, stupidly
letting me into worlds that ultimately
were. not. mine.
is this how men feel when they come home
from the moon? the familiarity and comfort
is not exciting or scary, not billowing or bold
gravity exists and it keeps me humble
and independent
and inquisitive
and you would love me now
if you didn't already know that love
ruins that which one loves.
so let's orbit, never cross paths
and i will learn to strum the songs we used to listen to
while you learned about tensile cables
and i learned about robotic ants
and both of us learned
that two is not so bad.

i think you would like me
if you hadn't crashed that car, the
blue one with the frozen door; if you'd
never seen me howl at the moon
in lonely joy. if you hadn't noticed
our orbit widening, our moons
fighting, our star deciding
what sort of star it was.
all of that uncertainty, like the faith of science
was too much for you and certainly
too large for me to contain
all on my own.
you lost one religion, and then you lost another.
driving in your car, lights dim,
you disapproving of my late night
medicine run, of my need for
medicine in the first place
of my knowing
that you need them too
you crashed, and crashed, and crashed
we didn't notice until months later.

i think you would like me
if you had treated me better
not blamed me for my pain.
i think you would like me
if you could have seen the moon
that i was on, the lightness of living
when we held hands.
i think you would like me
if i wanted you to like me anymore
if i tried harder to keep on liking you
if i just let you be
if i just didn't talk
if i didn't cry
if i sat against your wall, writing word after word about robotic ants
listening to the music settle in and grow inside of me.

there are certain talismans i have kept from our space romp
and you can't have them back.