You lift me when it counts,
no speeches, no drama.
Just there.
You poise a field goal in your hands
a plea. What does that even mean?
Sill girl, playing silly games, She won't ask,
Too scared, too timidied, but has her wants,
Not really for a pink drink,
but time.
Time to sit, to be near,
to share what won’t come out right.
Moments I can’t explain,
moments I still want you to have.
So we go to Starbucks.
The pink drink is the excuse.
It’s the quiet way I ask
for time I don’t know how to request,
for a space where words aren’t required.
You don’t fix anything.
You don’t ask for explanations.
You just make room.
A seat in the car.
A stop that wasn’t planned.
Time that didn’t have to be earned.
I talk when I can.
When I can’t, you don’t fill the space.
That’s not a field goal.
It’s a question.
And the answer
is a cup in my hand
and the long, hopefully long way home.
