I can’t help but think

what it is I write

is perceived differently

by you.

I’ve thought about

how someday

I’d like to convince you

what it is I write,

you ran away from

didn’t give me a chance.

Oh I’m not talking of decades,

only months

and in those quiet moments,

when our eyes only spoke to one another,

no need for words

we were well ahead of any dialogue.

I can only recall

how tired I was

after weeks of worry,

trying somehow to find the answers

to finally say,

what you wanted to believe.