I am too far outside myself
to know anything important.
A kiss on the cheek, maybe, or
an I love you — is that too much?
You possess yourself utterly
like your house of twenty years.
Writing a poem about you is like
talking about a painting with the model.
Neither of us has a screen door
which is maybe an entry point.
Your voice is an old song heard
sung in the next room. I don’t know
how to hold myself, like you’ve been
doing for longer than I’ve been alive.
Maybe I should ask you to teach me
in case I need to pass the favor on.