If words are the windows to the soul then I worry
because I have never strayed from a sappy love sonnet
and yet here I am alone, waiting for you.

I want you to know that I am not afraid of us.
But I am not the man who puts bravery in every step
or breath exhaled. I stumble. I think too much
about the left foot right and
the kiss goodnight. I know that I am more
than is seen - but I cannot seem to reveal it. Is it my call
for the curtain that unveils the play?
Do I write this show, and translate each stage direction
into a laborious step? Do you?

I have no wish to be strong if strength has no meaning.
I have no wish to bother you if truly that is what I do.
I might have the answers but I would rather learn
than teach. And when I am certain,
I am certain it will be too late.
Is this what fear has become? Is it a step into
the dark unknown?

Or is it you,
holding your hand out to the crowd,
hoping for someone to vault the stage
and take it?