I didn’t love you.
I tried and couldn’t feel it right.
We drove together back and forth.
I felt your warmth from my seat, on my side.
Always disbelieving your passenger seat stares
when there was a road ahead, ignored.
We floated, still, between the white lines.
Your I know how’s and Let’s do this.
So sure, confident, traces of leadership.
Your nervousness in our silences.
I was comfortable in your care.
Had gotten used to standing outside the car,
waiting on your Southern hand around my side.
Used to your fingertips on my shoulder blade,
guiding me around corners, up the stairs,
when I knew where to go but not how it would end.
The day we shopped for suits, you held my hand
between the shops, on bricks like cobblestones.
My fingers lied and said they were fine.
The suit you wore, the Oxford shirt,
the tie that was my second choice.
I pulled at the shoulders, like the tailor had done
finding myself attracted to your reflection.
We hemmed the pants, I asked the lady please,
and we had them back today.
After you bought me dinner, wouldn’t let me pay.
We went home to our friends, and shared like each week.
Maybe they thought we were falling in love.
Maybe we did, in fleeting summer months.
Maybe you were.
I wanted to be.
Because you were being everything I should need.