Used To

I’ve gotten used to
looking at your face
in this distant way.
I see you
through glass
and never beyond it,
never inside seeing you
like I used to.
I watch you
through lenses
of miles and secrets
and I can never
crack through
the barriers
lying between us.
I’m used to
the distance,
the detachment
of screens,
the selected pieces
I get to see.
I know you
through assumptions
and retouches
instead of dirt
and flesh
and sweat.
And I’m used to it,
and it’s okay
and not okay
at the same time.
I want the real you
but I’m afraid of
who you really are.
We are built
on bridges
twisted up
from phone cords
and bus wheels,
paper
and ink,
so how would it be
to touch your face,
to hold
and be held?
How would I explain
all that I know
and don’t know
about the you
I’m used to?

~Patience

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