Take me to task on the chin,
whispering “what do I owe you?” through chipped teeth.
I’ll tend to the debt I’ve incurred,
reset the balance that’s brought you swinging
if only to keep the calm when you’re around.
Drag me aside to scream my confidence away,
blaming for what I’ve owed when my pockets are empty,
but I leave feeling full of liability.
Break it down to paper and the parallels will defy themselves
for the signals I’ve positioned so to pour on your pride.
That’s the story that’s told for when I sour your insides.
Must have been a fault of mine.
This room becomes the surface of the sun in a poor glance;
a wasted chance to connect
turned to a faded memory to file away in our biography,
the ending typed into the beginning and repeated every page,
but I felt something different in the first sentence,
and when I fumbled over the punctuation and delicate language,
I called it nerves in the presence of a praised critic,
their beauty demanding performance akin to Hercules,
slaying that which came in the way to prove an unself-worth.
The time when you bent me over the t’s and the spikes of the i’s,
I called it a pleasure to be in the arms of a grace,
sensing attachment never picked before,
guising the aches in my veins as a bond to fight for.
Coming into myself means coming into you,
and I shake in soaked clothes from a redirected storm,
bruised lips asking “what do I owe you?” to a brick wall.
Indifference shines back.
It feels like the best bad dream,
in the presence of an absent hand,
hoping to earn its fingers.
The only cost is whoever I am,
left limping off to sunsets without a triumph to blare;
only the impassive sun’s glare.
I call it a love and all I’ve managed to deserve.
I’ve only ever wanted to call it a friend.
( ❤ Mitch)