Unexpected

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.

Only

“I’ve only met you twice,”

he says sharply.

Only.

I feel badly for you.

You see,
I’ve only met you
in my daydreams
my fantasies
in my dreams you come to me.

I see you in my
projections
face you in the
ideas of the future
join you in images I create.

I talk to you in poems,
I feel you in the words.
I look for you in pictures.

“I’ve only met you twice,”

he says,
as if that’s reason
for why I should not care
that he has not met me
as deeply as I have met him.