There is a place between my eye and your eye that connects our brain patterns, heart rhythm, beat by beat—music, the first place we connected.

It’s not love there

But it is

And it isn’t 

Last year I missed your birthday 

I wanted you so bad 

And I could not handle that 

So I up and left and 

Ran away to Georgia 

But I made sure some went to your art show—I even bought the tickets. 

Now Georgia’s on my mind

And we’re fine

More than fine really 

We traveled through time really 

Secure and divine really

And now perfect friends

Seriously, my perfect friend 

Secure, stay there.

Even though I proposed to you a few mindless times 

You stayed. 

And it’s safe

And now not romantic at all for me on my end. 

And you always on your end— you Dummy. 

Chummy 

I giggled about beans in a box

Texted you about dates 

And loves I had lost 

And the only one I told 

when you called you friend

To nurse me. 

Have I known you my lifetime? Must be. 

Romance always hurt me 

So I planted us in a given up land

And it grew 

From a crush 

To a friend 

And I spilled the whole truth 

And ironed what crushed me 

Took a battering ram to your Cheeto lock

Now, you perfect trust me 

And I you. 

You’re so good it makes me feel home

Your Father didn’t deserve you. 

Oh but, I see in you the most loving Father 

One day, they will look to you and you will love them too—their whole life through. 

To them, you will be home—always. 

And we speak on your drawings and art—Because I get it.

I might be the only one who really, really gets it—we both have vast inner worlds we float on so softly

We fit together like alphabet soup; 

It’s so weird and it isn’t:

How much I want you to fall so deeply in love. 

Because I see how you long for it, your struggle and work 

you put into 

helping you 

figure out what you

 think is wrong with you. 

The answer is: nothing. 

To me you’re perfect. 

Ok, not perfect; you’re a date harsh critic. 

But, I’ve never seen a person try and love so hard: 

Scared that he can’t. 

Scared when he does. 

Scared when he should. 

Everything about you is lovely to me. 

Platonic and perfect—flawed, lovely to me. 

And you hear me when I blab all the things I think I know, and if you don’t—I would never know. 

You’re safe

But, I know you’re not mine. 

That logic I told you about the girl you couldn’t choose: 

She was never yours, she was always his. 

And even though I once did not want to face this reality: 

You were always hers, you were never mine

But, I’ll call her Bridget whomever she is.