"I'd like to return this compliment?"...

I miss the toilet sometimes—

marking the metal stall divider,

the hidden brick corner off Main Street,

the mossy tree trunk, the open ocean,

the infinite dream in a warm sheet

that felt better before it was wet—

I miss the moment sometimes—

when your eyes say “you're not him,”

arms fold “I'll keep these to myself,”

mind drifts “I'd like to be somewhere

else,” smile crimps “this is the

closest to our lips you'll get”—

And so I catch another compliment—

“You're great! talented, so kind,

disciplined, I could never, wow...”

consolations that hurt my ear, as it pools

the trickle from their awkward silence

“...just not someone I'd like to be near.”

And often I dream I'd say back quickly—

“You know I miss the toilet sometimes,

right? I am a tiny rough-draft, tripped up,

mis-stepped easily, and that's okay. Someone

will share tea with me sometime, then find me

ordinary, non-wow—and hug me anyway.