The One Essential
A poem
Monday again,
But today I remembered
how you held my hand
with both of yours,
how you kneaded each phalanx
piece by piece
slowly —
how when the plane was trying to land
the second plane
you took my hand and
it helped me breathe
I want each night to
look less often
at the door
you left through
after it seemed like
you changed your mind
by the time you come back
I will be healed from the
all over places you touched
as blood becomes a scab, a sealant and then a scar faded and invisible, like it was imagined
If you return
will I find you improved in your appraisal of my value or pathetic in further ignorance of your own flaws;
and if you don’t,
next time I make a friend
with whom I have every
important thing
in common,
except, I suppose,
the one essential
Do you know
how it hurts
to pry and pin
a corner of me open
for the hope
that the person you love
is not who he was at the end
but who he was
every day before
and to know
that no amount
of love
changes anyone
