Here’s the brutal truth:
You can fit neatly into the curve of someone else,
The darkness of you can finally feel some electricity ,
Your hands are at ease,
They do not tear at your own insecurities,
finally do not feel like you must pick and prod.
You don’t fidget.
You don’t run.
You stay there for the first time in so long .
You can be positive you have found something to sand down your jagged edges,
A piece that just makes sense.
And it feels true. It feels holy and peaceful. Everything you thought couldn’t be.
Church bells ring as you rise,
and you don’t even go to church.
And you can be absolutely right
But that doesn’t mean you make sense to them.
I don’t know how to make that sound pretty
I don’t know how to cushion the blow of a truth so ugly.
Any of them,
Are part of the story too.
You, my dear, are just one side of this love story.
And their voice might not speak as loudly as yours.