Tender

there are moments i-
can almost see you here
with me
in this room.

the green striped shirt
the white tank top
the beige khakis

you smile,
and only one cheek lifts.
the hole that it forms -oh!

I can see the whole life we could have had in that dimple.

i wish i was a writer
so i could put words
on how you almost made me feel.

there are nights i-
can still feel you
sleeping next to me

i stroke the shape
your head left
on my pillow
and remember how
you mumbled
in your dreams

something eerie
something so real
something already gone.

i wish i was an artist
so i could put color
on what you almost said to me.

there are days i-
get a glimpse
of the memories we’ll never make.

the ones of fights in yellow kitchens
and the make-ups on crowded streets

the ones on pebble beaches
scraping your knee

and the ones in white dresses
with your breath on my neck.

i wish i knew music the way you do
so i could put into song
the steps we almost took together.

but i am no poet,
i’m just alone in my room
and my bed feels empty
and my brain plays tricks on me
and all i have is this mountain you left me on
and cotton feet to climb it down
and an aching heart that can’t see

if tender is all we’ll never become
or all we’ll always remain.