I Didn't Know It Then

I thought I liked the way you held your head,

it was casual and sincere,

not unlike the way you smiled.

But this was different from your smile…

There was something else to it,

something I didn’t notice before. 

Perhaps I daydreamed too much 

or imagined too little,

but I did notice,

as I pretended not to notice. 

Your eyes were down 

but I saw you glance up

once or twice. 

Your hand was on the cup 

that you swore you’d never sip from.

I know now that you were breaking 

but I didn’t know it then.  

I thought I liked the way you held your head; 

I thought there was some sort of beauty in the tragedy.

There was no beauty.

There was no beauty.

You slid me a pencil,

an old wooden kind,

and told me to write a story on my napkin. 

I wrote about Jesus and slid them both back.

You burned the napkin

with your cigarette lighter 

and pocketed the pencil. 

Then you lit one up 

and spun to face me. 

Your eyes were blue,

mine were green, 

but your oceans were all dried up 

while my forest stayed in spring. 

You said “You don’t smile enough”

Breathing out a swirling smoke, 

as you sat cross-legged on the barstool. 

I in reply grinned poorly

and turned away. 

I assumed you turned away also. 

I soon grabbed my coat

and began to shuffle out the door. 

I looked back,

your head was in that way I thought I liked. 

I watched as you blew a smoke ring up to heaven;

It made a halo.   

I walked out

and you never shed another tear on my behalf.