Your name is Stranger (rough draft)

I’ll admit I cordoned off aspects of my heart and mind
because it was the only way of getting past your cruelty in heated moments
because we stopped being patient, gentle and kind toward one another
You stopped listening to me and assumed I did the same
In your jargon, it was a battle to win and I was someone to be crushed out; but we don’t get to choose who we love; I’d choose to stop loving you
but I, unfortunately, still love you and care for your success and well-being

I want you to admit you fucked up by hastily acting and not thinking
You pride yourself on being a reasonable and rational mind
but you’re your own worst enemy, consistently getting in the way of your progress
Unable to clearly see that the pain you feel, you’re responsible for inflicting
That your personal life is in the same shambles you predicted for your siblings

How can someone with your smarts not realize that pushing me away
leaves you in the same predicament you  found yourself yesterday
for every heartbreaking and life-changing event, where is your best friend to share
the grief and the elation, the sorrow and celebration?
You’re not stupid enough to believe that every open relationship will go well,
that you’ll be able to see every twist and turn and nobody will get hurt?
You insult your own intellect by believing you’d be in absolute control
We don’t get to choose the ones we fall in love with

Admit your need for control: control of the narrative, of who knows what and when
I’ll admit I’m not always in control and I err, I misread, I misplace trust and hope
Admit it all and none just the same
For you’re not really here and you don’t care
I’m just talking to a ghost where a stranger now stands

A stranger who just happens to look as handsome and magnificent
Whose voice happens to sound the same as the one I couldn’t get tired of hearing
A strange man with peculiar habits I adored, with hands that may have traced over
every curve, caught every tear and wove through my coconut scented hair
I think if I were to trace my fingers over your face with my eyes closed, it’d feel the same
If I ran my nails over your skin, it’d prickle under my touch… or draw laughter
Should you, Stranger, allow me to press my face against your chest and nuzzle your neck
Why, Stranger, I’d feel like I was breathing in the smells of sevens years passed!

I don’t begrudge you, though I have every right to and I should, dear stranger
I don’t regret the insatiable, hungry feelings that opened hearts and bedroom doors
Nor these pangs of regret and sadness – it’s better than feeling nothing at all
So, let’s just keep this between two passing strange people.