I daydream about the man
you might have been
thirty years ago.
Tall, lanky. Casual, relaxed gait.
Your hair is longer in that careless ’70s way
and I want to run my fingers through it.
You’re still the same introvert I know,
and I try even harder
to bring you out of your shell
because hearing you laugh at something I’ve said
makes me feel brilliant and beautiful.
You still leave me newspaper clippings
the way you sometimes do,
but instead of video games and culture trends,
they’re about the books and records you love
but don’t always talk about.
You take me to your favorite record store,
and the patchouli incense calms my nerves
while I try to think of something smart to say
about the record you’re touching with adoring hands.
You take me to an indie film at that small theater,
and I love it for all the wrong reasons.
We get in trouble once or twice
for whispering side conversations at meetings
or for pulling an Irish goodbye,
and I try my hardest to look natural
while you blush.
I might fall in love with you.
I’m pretty sure you’d love me, too —
but even in the daydream, I can’t tell
because we’re too busy talking
about everything else.