Blunt

You’re on something. 
Tonight. Now. Again.
You think I can’t tell.
You think you’re hiding it.
That there’s no difference in you.

Whatever it is you’ve 
gotten so comfortable with it
you don’t worry
about being seen.
It’s become habit, routine. 

I’ve known you 
just shy of three weeks,
not long enough to say something - 
your life is still just yours -
but long enough

to have seen you.
Known you.
Loved you.
Gathered you to me
and held you close. 

I’ve watched you
speak of dreams,
of island treasure,
of your mother,
of me. 

I’ve watched you 
give your whole heart
to our dogs,
to sunsets,
to the sea.

I’ve watched you 
listen,
and dance,
and laugh
with your whole body.

That is the man
I adore,
who makes me feel safe
and childlike
and cared for.

Tonight. Now. Again.
Your blue eyes turn grey
and your voice gets loud
and your speech is slow 
and your words seem to mock this life.

Your mannerisms - 
the ones that have become so familiar -
turn exaggerated,
like you’re a puppet being played
by an amateur. 

And you’re standing
right next to me
but I miss you.
I don’t know where you go
when this man is here.

I wonder if you think
I’ll think less of you 
or won’t want to be close
if you come clean.
But that’s not me.

I want honesty. 
This world is rough,
we do our best to get through,
and with a heart like yours
that’s so soft and true,

and without answers
for why things happen to you,
I understand. 
And I’m here to say 
I only ever want to help

you be the most you
and that at the end of the day
you have a friend who
sees you and loves you -
all of you - come what may.