I held my sense in fairly high esteem
when I was 21. I thought I knew
myself and him, for I distinguished seem
from is and ought. If anything, I grew
indignant when I felt I wasn’t heard.
I needed to be present, I complained,
and if my lover thought such talk absurd,
he kept that to himself. We waxed. We waned.

And though I felt some pride, like I perceived
the patterns soft-projected as we danced,
I wish I’d paid attention and believed
the way he self-described. Whatever chance
we had was lost when neither opened mind
like arms. We deafly left our best behind.