When Your World is Incomplete

by Shaun Terry


I was a log on the forest floor,
I was the half-peeled molding around a couple’s bathroom door,
I was a day-old muffin, being picked over by fruit flies in a big, brown coffeeshop.

But you taught me to breathe,
to use all of me as an instrument to feel with,
to softly kiss your beautiful mouth,
and to make sweet love to you.

But it was too much.
I trembled with fear.
What you gave was all I’d ever wanted.
I assumed you’d always be there.
So I blamed you, I crushed you,
I gashed you with blame and dishonesty
because feeling right felt wrong,
and I didn’t see you.

I looked into your big, beautiful blue eyes,
and I felt your tears sliding down my face.
You were so much wiser than I,
and I fought to be comfortable with myself.
I assumed you’d always be there.
Maybe you’d be gone one day,
but I didn’t expect it to be today.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe,
but you know me so intimately well,
and you could show me again.
I’d listen with no fear
because I’d know that what you gave was all I’d ever wanted,
and I know that the scary parts are only scary because someone can take them from you,
if you don’t focus on her.

It’s not fair for me to say it now, but it’s true.
I wish you’d forgive me and let me make it up to you.
I’ll always save a place for you,
and it’ll be all of me.

I still smell your soft skin.
You’re still my best friend.