I guess I specialize

in the love affair that never

had a chance, or only ever had

a chance, one chance I missed.

Or many.

I specialize in cowardice called shy

ness. I do not lack sense or

observation; I lack steely nerves,

and so it goes, I accept, I lack steely

nerves and am undeserving.

Don't tell me that's in my mind,

I caught it from yours. Eventually, I

caught it.

If you're willing to get down on yourself,

an old man once advised me, there

are 6.7 billion people out there willing

to help you do it.

But maybe that's the wrong way to help.

It isn't wrong to feel down.

I don't think I should make myself someone

else to be alluring, even to someone

who seems like everything; even if it

would work.

And so it's easier and better to decline

in advance, chalk it up to shyness,

than to be torn to pieces

because you are human

and humans are monkeys

and we want each other for monkey

logic. Monkeys are cute and mischievous

and you are cute and I bet also mischievous,

but I don't want us to end up disrespecting

each other, flying dry feces as monkeys do.

Instead, I would simply like to know you,

and to be allowed to feel it's all right or

even perhaps good to admire your spirit if

I happen to.

But you can tell I'm on edge about you,

and you don't know what to say about that.

Maybe that makes you nervous also.

I understand, at least a bit; after all,

I am nervous, and I don't want to make

you nervous.

Maybe it's just as well you seem not

interested in knowing me.

I still believe in the value of that,

of knowing each other.

But it hurts too much to hope

when the hope is dashed every time

and you were - I was - already tender

or hurting

or afraid.

I hope for a lasting acquaintance without

hoping.

A lasting acquaintance I would have wanted,

did want, but did not pursue, only admired.

A person who became my focus and conscience before I realized it: that matters, you know, even if you don't feel you earned it, even if you think I'm mistaken.

I try to talk myself into not feeling hopeless

by turning the words just so.

But maybe I am hopeless.

Maybe ideals are destroyers

of hope. Maybe if you wish the world

were better than what you see, and you

try to help it along, you simply fall

and can't manage.

But I fall, and I manage. And you fall, and you manage. And I have two hands, and two ears, and if I like you I want to be of value to you. Is this too much idealism? Maybe it's too much. But I don't believe it has to be too much. I'll hope a little, and I'll fall again, and if I help you up, that may help me not fall. So if it seems all too idealistic, we can call it selfish, but selfish attentively.

I don't want to be like everyone else

in the ways I don't admire.

I want to be like what I admire,

and that of course includes what I admire

about you, meaning I'd like to learn,

or at least witness.