A new draft.

When you find yourself wondering why it didn’t work out

you will perhaps remember that you held my hand
on the sidewalk outside of the bar and I, caught off guard,
never bent my fingers to match your grasp.
Your hand was cold, your arm straight.
I watched the wet traffic pass.
 
When you find yourself wondering why it didn’t work out,
realize that I could not sleep comfortably
next to you. Could not melt into the softness of your shoulder,
or the softness of my own private dreaming to which
I have grown accustomed. There was that moment of confession--
all our fears given to each other
like trinkets wrapped in foiled paper—you collected mine
like stamps on a passport. Said you felt like you
could tell me anything, but that you wanted to, scared you.
 
When you find yourself wondering why it didn’t work out
it is because I cupped my hands in front of you, waiting
for the gift of your mind. You gave me air,
distant murmurings of words not fully realized--
boxes wrapped in foiled paper and padlocks.
 
My past frustrations bloomed like dogwood--
pale petals straining toward light.
I tried to pull open the cage of your wilted smile.
You twisted the key from the lock,
then swallowed it.