I was hoping 
 you’d be
 unexpected.
  
 I found you by chance
 reading words written
 by your own hand.
  
 Sweet mannerisms.
 I began to imagine
 how you'd feel
 moving with me,
 creating something
 with more than our minds.
  
 Soon it became clear
 this chance encounter
 this unexpected meeting
 my forwardness,
 a story I’d like to fall into,
 would not turn out as anticipated.
  
 The result leaves me
 feeling bewildered,
 saddened
 when the ending
 unexpectedly changes.
  
 I am left
 still holding my pen
 writing all that I hoped would be
 even when evidence
 so clearly indicates
 a diverging plot.
  
 And maybe the unexpected in this
 will be more than
 unfulfilled hope.
 Perhaps I will discover
 the art of listening,
 accepting where you end
 and I begin.
   
 I will,
 in the unexpected,
 navigate voicing my own wants
 I’ll attempt to let go
 when my needs aren’t met,
 and when my wants come second
 to yours.