Being “With” You
is like watching grass grow:
your signs of love are subtle,
and your roots are frail, like threads
barely holding on.
Simple in your structure, or rather
your lack thereof,
a flimsy culm to keep you sturdy,
and it barely ever does.
In a smile, or in the way
you ask for a glass of water—
I go days waiting for a gesture,
dry soil in the midst of drought.
You just sit there, idle,
taking in the chlorophyll
growing and growing
drunk with the rays of sun.
Reaching out to me like a rhizome ,
like a secret in the night,
and I submit—a sinking sunset
drowning in the sea.
Then I lay drained,
a hose, after watering the grass,
all coiled up, wanting to burst.
I wanted to tell you how it feels,
and it’s like watching grass grow:
a long tedious process
taking days, weeks for some results.
Fertilizing patches, plucking away weeds,
all for what? I know that I’ll just
mow it all away.