I have to learn you —
read you like a book
and take stock of your moods.
Proceed with caution when
your brow is furrowed,
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ask what’s wrong when your
nostrils frustratingly flare,
flare illuminating the night
as an idea registers in your head.
I don’t need you to learn me.
Although you beg me to let you try.
Why traverse the pain of facing my true self
in the mirror of your eyes?
I’ve resigned myself to never being understood
and I’ve made the understanding of myself enough for me.
Why promise me comprehension I know you can’t deliver?
Will this ever be enough for you?
