I am content
to have none
to hold up my hands like I had just washed them
in 90% rubbing alcohol
free of answers;
yes, love, I am content to not know.
And every story you spun
with a smirk and a shrug
every message you hid behind a sigh—
I don’t need every detail,
I don’t need to patch in
every hole in the story;
we can just pretend
that we’re a movie with scenes missing
as I prop a soda up on your dash.
And also, I forgive you
with a grace—a quantum grace
unresolved in possibility—
I’ll assume you shine as bright
as my imagination; I’ll assume you burn
through minutes like gas-soaked newspaper;
each day crisps and flakes from the bundle
and I’ll assume you’re not just shallow or empty,
but instead that something torments you
something on a horizon only you sense
like a wolf scenting another predator.
I gift to you the benefit of my doubt—
after all what is more pure love than to hold
the richer of two possibilites
closest to my heart?
Did I say I was content
with no answers? It’s true, but—
but I hope that
some questions hound you
some passions drown you
I hope you are indeed black like
rainwater on asphalt at night:
mysterious and endless and unknown even
Beyond all that, love, I hope
you ask yourself those questions
the ones I am content
to have no answers for.
I hope that by now those questions come automatic,
that you chant them silently, beneath your breath
like a prayer to a God you haven’t believed in
since you were a child,
when you expected and found
answers in everything.