When you lie alone,
In some future bed,
You perhaps may understand a quarter
Of what lies in my heart,
And perhaps a percent
Of what goes on in my head.

But I hope not.

Because by then I may not
Be alive – or with you –
Perhaps by then I’d have understood
What I have been trying to.

I’ve tried to gain a touch,
That I have not asked or desired,
Of your own volition,
Even if it’s just because you’re tired.

Rest your hand on my cheek,
Or put your fingers in my shirt,
I’ve not asked for much,
Just a touch, to heal a hurt.

I understand.

You’re not wired that way;
Intimacy isn’t your go-to;
There’s nothing one can say
To make things happen.
You’re built of different clay.

But if and when I give up,
And you’ll find me adrift and casual,
You’ll perhaps miss who I was –
What I was was unusual.

Perhaps I’ll learn to be you;
Perhaps your withholding is strength;
Perhaps I’ll learn the life you had
Was the love you meant.

Perhaps.

What I had to teach
Couldn’t ever be learnt;
And I’d heal and harden,
After touch is lost and hope is burnt.

One night as you turn in bed
And open your eyes with a start,
Like humans do after a broken snore,
You may find me gone –

Or perhaps asleep in the distance…
Perhaps then you’ll see a hard heart
In a room with a locked door,
Cut off, forever and ever more.