A question,

a simple pondering

that plagues late, lonely nights;

what were we,

what was us?

You labelled it,

your own word,

your way back;

staking claim in my heart

- a spot you never knew existed,

or did you?

Do you?

Do you read it

in my eyes,

in the way I see you,

the way I breathe you in?

The way I need you.

Score one for you,

the girl is hooked.

She feels foolish,

that is, I do,

for the fear, the wonder,

the desperation I feel.

The way I am

like a child, with a crush,

under your wake.

The way I love you,

since I can't have you.

Is this us?

Some silly game,

as girls with dolls,

as boys with guns.

Some faded memory,

with teenagers and angst,

quiet nights and wet dreams.

Do you still want me?

Even a little,

late at night, when she won't touch you.

Was that us,

those drunken fumbles,

without fucking?

An unfinished act,

a frightened plea,

get off, go home,

before I love you – that went unsaid.

Is this us?

A page in a diary,

a line in a poem,

a laughing remark to a new bride…

Us, it suggests more

but means less.

This is us,

you there, me here.

And the definition fumbling between.

You said it,

But never explained it.