For the time that I knew you
I remember well
that you could never quite
be passionate,
for you kept your heart locked
behind the jail of a broad chest
which you would puff out
like a brazen lion
whose pride didn’t know
he had forgotten to roar.

I would see you stop short,
preclude, hold back,
because the words were not in your blueprints,
or rather you’d rubbed them out
because you thought
that multi-colors were gaudy,
or girly,
or gay,
one of those.

If your bravado tried to hide it,
your iron face confirmed
that you, like many others,
had also given vibrancy
a cramped cubicle
in the depths of
your manly skyscraper.

I saw you hiding it,
(creativity, wonder, your bliss – your magic)
and I wanted to poke it out of you,
convince you to crack

But how could I do that
when you treated my radiance
with disdain?
When you kept me at an arm’s length
with your cool indifference
and always-weary glances
that never actually looked.

So many times I wanted
to tell you, ironman,
that it was time
to give yourself permission
to break your suave façade,
to show the rich love
you kept.

I never did though,
for there was a line
both you and I
had been cultivated to live behind,
and I was scared,
so I held back,
I stopped short.

~

Writer: Anthea van den Bergh

Editor: Jean Weiss

Photo: Caccamo/Flickr