Poem: Outgrow

She said, You'll outgrow it, or you'll grow with it
I don’t remember the exact words that came from her mouth.
But I remember, with a heavy clarity,
The exact air I was breathing.
The sharp, dark aroma of the espresso,
The heat radiating from the moka pot resting between us,
And the sudden, massive lump in my throat.
I remember the cafe had no glass,
Just an open wall wrapped in green leaves and flowers.
And I remember the blowing wind pushing the storm inward,
Parsing the rain through the vines,
Splashing it directly onto our table.
And most of all, her presence.

I was strong enough to handle the truth with ease
But also weak enough to lose that ease,
I was strong enough to face the truth with no complaints in heart
But also weak enough to fill it with complaints,
Not to her.
But to god, which I believe don’t exist,
And to life, with no inherent meaning,
To the flowers, that bloom just for her,
To the sun, that shines to kiss and bathe her skin,
To the words, that exist just to tell how beautiful she is,
To the tune, that plays so that she can dance,
To the blackbird, that sings in the dead of night
So that she can sleep in peace,
To the cool breeze, that breezes when she's feeling the heat,
To the heat, that heats her when she's hit by cool breeze
To the moon, that borrows light
Just to trace the curve of her cheek in the dark,

To the stars, that refuse to fall,
Staying pinned to the velvet sky just to map the way to her door,
To the oceans, with their restless tides,
That only push and pull to mimic the rhythm of her breathing,
To the seasons, that change
Only to give her a reason to bundle up in a coat,
Or to let her bare shoulders feel the summer sun,
To the silence, that stretches long and heavy,
Just waiting for the privilege of being broken by her laugh,
To the shadows, that are lucky enough to follow her,
To cling to her heels and worship her silhouette when I cannot,

To the mirrors, those glass thieves,
That get the absolute honor of holding her reflection every morning,
To time, that cruel, elastic thing,
That slows down to a crawl so the universe can savor her smile,
But sped up so ruthlessly the moment she began to speak,
To gravity, that anchors her gently to the earth,
Treating her like a fragile secret,
While it crushes my own chest into the dirt,
To the colors of the world,
The reds that were invented just to paint her blush,
The golds that exist just to catch in her hair,
To the very oxygen in the air,
That rushes eagerly to fill her lungs,
That gets to live inside her,
While leaving me gasping at that wet table.

I complain to all of this godless, empty expanse,
That somehow conspired,
In all its chaotic, meaningless collisions,
To perfectly design a masterpiece like her,
Only to sit me right across from it,
Choking on a lump in my throat,
Knowing the museum was closing.

But we didn't part at the table.
We stepped out of the cafe together,
Into the very rain that had been blowing through the open wall.
And she opened her umbrella.
She held it over us,
Shielding me from the same sky I had just been cursing.
We walked side by side,
Sharing that small, fragile canopy,
The world reduced to the sound of water hitting fabric,
And the quiet rhythm of our footsteps on the wet pavement.

She walked me to my stop.
She made sure I was dry.
And then she walked away.
But she didn't walk out of my world...

I still see her.
I still hear that laugh the silence was waiting for.
We still share the air, the time, the space.
But the inches between our shoulders under that umbrella
Became the quiet, permanent boundary
I learned to keep.

"You'll outgrow it"

I know now that I didn't outgrow it.
You don’t outgrow the sun when it still shines right next to you.
So, I am growing with it.
I am growing around the ache,
Learning to stand beside the masterpiece
without trying to own the canvas.
To share a joke, the pavement, a regular Tuesday afternoon,
And smile, knowing my chest doesn't feel nearly as crushed.

I grew with the truth that I can stand beside her,
But I can't hold her.
That we can share an umbrella,
But not a life.

I learned to look at her,
Without asking the universe for more.
And carry the quiet weight of knowing,
I am allowed to stay in the gallery,
As long as I don't touch the art.