Dish Pan

In deep honesty, I know that you keep to yourself. That no one really knows you except the few you deem worthy. How I envy their knowledge of you. Those hidden idiosyncrasies that reveal the secrets to how you smile so big. I wait another day, seeing your face in reflection. Reaching out to touch you. Risking the chance that you'll disappear before my hand touches your shoulder. How I envy their knowledge of you. Believing the impossible. A steady faucet that spews with the press of a lever. I decided to stand still, realizing that I was standing on the wrong side of the sink. Left dry, hearing only the sound of your laughter. How I envy their knowledge, knowing exactly where to stand when you rain affection. The taste of crappy food, left stained. Not much room to move. Collected in an empty sink. The clatter of spoons, forks, butter knives, and plates without so much as a cup. I must admit. I envy their knowledge of you as I am left here stale, without cause. Seeking you to cleanse me in purpose