Who he isn't

A poem about who he isn't

I don’t know who he is,
but I know who he isn’t.

I won’t have to stretch and bend and break.
It won’t feel like I’m reaching.
Extending my hand,
and being pushed away like two south poles.

It won’t feel like I’m out in the cold.
It won’t feel like a waiting game—
or any game at all.
He loves me, he loves me not
is for children with daisies.

There won’t be questioning, waiting, wondering, hoping, yearning, crying, praying, or begging.

I’m not repeating a pattern.
Choosing the elusive one
who asks me if they’re hard to love
and I say no,
but they are.

I won’t have to chase
when he self-isolates
to make sure that he’s okay
so I can be okay.

He doesn’t forget my birthday.

He doesn’t wait
for me to make the first move.
He doesn’t make me confused,
feed me mixed-signal soup.
I won’t have to speak his language.

I don’t know who he is,
but I know who he isn’t.

He’s not you.

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