I used to want you to understand all of it:
the dripping roof, stalagmites rising up like dandelions
across long stretches of Tennessee pasture.

You told me you were different, but I was never
quite convinced. It starts the same way every time:
a forearm under my armpit, chafing the skin.

I didn’t want to admit you were slowing me down.
That your help was like a fallen branch on my path—
an obstacle to overcome in addition to all the others.

I knew softer rest between stone walls—
cradled by rock while my phone beamed with
your citations, the blackness kinder than any light.

Photo by Roger Starnes Sr on Unsplash