Prayer 1

A thousand conversations we have had,
talking past each other’s longing ears.
I pretend to know you well,
speaking of the things I’m sure you’ve said
--maybe only wish you’d said--
keeping up appearances for those who overhear.
Raging, cursing, shouting how it ought to be
when I think that no one sees or cares.
you barely even whisper then,
so very hard to hear.
I imagine you with head in hands,
pain-filled eyes closing to my darkness,
a disappointed father, a sad distracted son
sitting at a table in a dimming room,
a picture with no words attached,
memories rewritten to fill an emptiness,
painting me the hero, you the villain,
for someone needs to take the blame
and so you do and did and will.
I think I must exasperate you
with my incessant whining cries,
the way I pout and beg for more
on top of everything you’ve given.
I’m sure sometimes
that you don’t know me well,
or pause to truly hear my heart,
though that is what you claim to do.
You try to make me think that you are good,
most days I don’t buy that line,
and simply close my ears
and wish that you’d give up on me,
though that is something
you refuse to do.