How To Grow A Man

i built you;
i melted your butter,
wore your hair for you,
turned your eyes forward
so you might see the goodness too.
i held you
when you thought your

world was leaving.
and when you needed me,
i built you.
but now you make what i made
for you.
i showed you how to sow your dreams
how to hide them under your jacket
until you were ready.
i held you for so long
until i felt myself collapsing
time; can you hold slowly for me.
i find that i can’t unravel myself
these days.
all i can think of is my old home by the river,
on the stone-lined hill
by the church.
(i’ve spent three years here with you,

from that first breath and then dive right in)
—but i was not ready, and it never felt the same
and i only crave
a time when i savored everything.
a slow time
in my old apartment.
with her wooden floors
and high ceilings
and a window that opened like a guillotine
onto the balcony
where my white cast iron furniture sat

where the rain would collect,
and the sun would hit me in the morning,
and i’d wake to it.
and september would be my favourite month,
because of the leaves, not because of your birthday.
and coffee would be my ritual
and i didn’t have TV
and i had all of my records,
and places for things.
and my plants would sit by my window
and i’d draw there

and sing
and cook.
i wouldn’t order food, i’d walk to the grocers.
i’d work out in my living room,
watch movies on my old TV, on a DVD player
i’d watch TV shows on repeat,
and i loved it
and i was alone.
and i loved it.

i remember my favorite day well.
i wasn’t with you.
and while you were praising those below you,
i was floating on the water.


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