Shy

I want to drink your coffee
just before sunrise on a work day
with snow collecting below the tailpipe
and the cats keeping our ankles warm.
It’s hard to explain so I don’t,
I just watch your reflection in the window
and try not to let the smiles without reason raise question.
That thought racing sensation of reaching for your hand
is narrated by prayers for rejection
and the bailout decision to pretend
I was reaching for something else.
And it’s silly to have such thoughts
and never speak of them directly
but I think it’s a defense thing
from the fear of your response
the fear around how putting something into words
makes that something more
than a daydream in a train window
I can look away from
and replace with small talk. There’s just
something in the way your hair curls over your scarf
and your laugh rumbles between words,
all the subtle things I can’t help but notice.
Like anchors in a storm keeping me present,
making me want to finagle some situation where it’s not odd
for me to ask things like why you entertain this thing I’m doing,
this identity hodgepodge I’m living;
you were the first one to tell me
attraction isn’t always black and white
and every time we hang out I’m kicking myself
for being too drunk to remember anything else you said that night.
I just want to play piano with my rings against the cup,
the snow coming down just out of reach, let me look
through those eyes in comfortable silence to know I’m not alone.
Then do me a favor and say anything
and free me from myself.

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