that’s not a secret

For my family friends, who grew up so fast that I couldn’t catch up.

—say something you never told me.
—i was nine. everything felt permanent. 

(the years sit between us like a closed book. your voice is lower now. mine keeps searching for the pitch it used to be when you taught me how to throw a stone without hurting my wrist.)

—that’s not a secret.
—i don’t remember secrets.
—you used to keep them for both of us.

(you still stand like you’re guarding a doorway. i notice this before i notice your face. if I were lost, I think my body would still look for you first.)

—alright. here’s one: i forgot how to need you.
—that’s not true.
—it is and it isn’t.

(i was afraid of becoming ordinary. of being the one who stayed. of disappointing you before you could see me again. i was more scared of your silence than of your judgment. and that was all i had these few years. you were at college and now that you’ve returned, it’s my turn to leave.)

—what are you afraid of now?
—cats.
—still?
—still.

—tell me a real one.
—i don’t know where to put all the things i learned without you.

(the city hums. your hands have scars i don’t recognize. i catalog them anyway. if i shut my eyes, i could still follow you home. i missed you. i miss you.)

—do you hate me for leaving?
—no. i just kept growing in a direction you weren’t standing. when will you stop leaning against doors?

(we laugh, too late, too softly. the love has changed shape but not weight. it fits differently in the chest.)

—stay a while.
—i can.

(for now, that is enough.)