No Final Fist Pump

Don’t
weather the storm.
God knows I was never
Miranda;
my father never cared about me.
Don’t stick around to make lightning pulses;
leave before there is anything
that could resemble a torrential downpour
upon your bed.

You
are probably made of many layers;
many of which I may never know.
But do not confuse this
with me not wanting to learn.
Us lions are not known for being patient;
I bit my tongue,
your bottom lip;
for once I found a place where I enjoyed the silence.

Forget
anything about me.
If you chose to memorize
observe anything at all.
I will recall the color of
your eyes and your half smile.
How you never smelled like
aftershave and that was
one of the things that made me like you more.
I’ll hold onto obscure band names,
TV shows,
references you made that I didn’t initially get.

About
time to let this one go.
Ran its course,
no harm, no foul.
But when it gets to be “about”,
that involves thought and you did
not believe it will get that far.
Do not read whatever poetry is offered,
or ask about family,
flowers,
tastes in:
music,
movies,
food.

Me
“A name I call myself”
and other musical references I should
not expect you to get.
But really:
it’s raining,
I’m going to mention
Gene Kelly.
In time,
it would’ve been one of many
penchants you would’ve associated with me.

As I walk on by,
will you call my name?

I thought
in you
I found
acceptance.

Or will you walk away?