Erudition

Our argument has aged and altered itself to fit our positions.

You cannot listen; I have forgotten how to remember you.

It was always a misguided approach from either end, anger

being the only thing that felt like home. I learned early to

harness my words, to let silence speak on my behalf. You took it

upon yourself to remedy only your reputation, not the reality

behind us. I resisted your truths, in favor of my own. It became

an odd sort of comfortable, this separateness—it felt like

an alliance we both understood, more pure than what I’d grown

used to. Forgiveness presented itself; I eyed it only a moment

before watching it spoil. It bore a finality with its entrance—

we were never having the same argument, only wanting to

be right. But your reach became rough, lacking in any attempt

at tenderness. I learned: some hands are not meant to be held.