Rough Drafts --->

The author

	Untitled 2
	Dialing the buttons Pressing the last number. Holding my breath, You pick up. We talk. It was so easy, I wonder why I worried at all.
	Next time It's even easier. I've got an idea, A way to help. No answer, No worries. Leave a message.
	Now I don't even have to call at all. You call me a few times, Once or twice. I feel comfortable, Asking for the phone, Talking to you in front of someone else.
	Then I call, No answer. I wait and wonder. I call again, And pass along messages. I wait.
	I call and talk It's a relief. We laugh and talk, And I see another side of you That reminds me of something deep inside me.
	Then I call and I call and I call. No response. You say you are going to call me, But you never do. I wonder who I should blame. I always settle for me.
	Then one day I call And you answer. We have the most broken conversation. The one I feared in the beginning. I tried to reason through statements you made While talking to you. I think I came across sounding angry, defensive, hurt. I hung up the phone Wishing that conversation never happened.
	I cried a little afterward Both in the afternoon and evening. Hurt and angry tears that bellowed with frustration. Why am I always Two steps behind? Why am I always At a different place in life Then all the rest?
	Why do I stay at work late? Why am I afraid to show others who I am? Why am I afraid of being hurt? Why do I keep comparing this friendship To others in the past? Why can't I let it stand on what it is And hope for what it can be?
	I vow to call tomorrow And the next day I don't call tomorrow Or the next day Because I don't feel like it.
	I need to know I can say the right thing. I need to know I can talk to you. I need to know I won't sacrifice myself and everything I am For something I think you want me to be.

Home | The author | The work | The gift