Never As Perfect As You Think I Am, revision
Never As Perfect As You Think I Am
Sometimes I miss you even when you’re here
in the other room or in another chair and I wish
things were such I could touch your hand or press
my shoulder into yours. Proximity is a weakness of mine
I know, and one you gently resist most of the time.
There are exceptions. Once watching Fellini on
my mother’s leftover TV. Once talking about music
and the price of apples until an early shift at work.
Once in your hospital room filled with shrinks and
too few flowers. The day I think you began to believe me,
and cried. Sometimes I just wish you would sleep, staying up
all night with your cigarettes and increasingly empty
bottles of wine, always work in the morning. Of course
at night you feel the souls of branches scrape at your
window and want nothing more than to let them in.
Put on some Smiths record, you can see the way the sky
outside fades to a duller gray. Turn on the light, you
can hear the crosstown cars carry their burdens
to somewhere or other, you can hold your stomach
with one hand and say to no one in particular, Oh
how strange to be mirthful. Once I took care of you
when you got drunker than anticipated and vomited
in your bed. You took care of me when I was fevered
and breathless two days later. Both times you said to me
there is no apology, no thanks enough. Now I say
they are equal errands. Both nights we shared your bed
for the first time. Both nights we said incomprehensible
things and understood. You want everything in life I have
never wanted. In that way we are the same, I suppose.
I cannot know that what small things I have to offer you
are payment enough but for my own satisfaction
when you are glad to see me or occasionally when you
touch my hand or kiss me briefly on the cheek.
