A Gym Bro Named Inga

I dreamed of you last night, We

were at a backyard party, and you

were with some friends:

A gym-bro, rather large, and bearded; his name

was Inga. There was also a girl

who had long, rainbow hair. I didn’t

catch her name, though she tried to tell me;

It was too noisy. You were busy monkeying with

your backpack, with something inside, pointedly

avoiding the introduction.

*

You never spoke, though Inga did. He was

quite insistent that I get his name right, while the girl

played with her hair, wanting me to see every

vibrant color, her smile sweet and kind of shy. It was important that

I like her, I could tell. And then off you all went,

the three of you.

*

You waved over your shoulder, barely

looked my way. Avoidance was always

the first clue, one I missed the last time around, but watching

you walk away, I wasn’t scared. I didn’t insist

upon seeing your eyes, or what was in the backpack.

I knew it was okay. You were okay.  (It’s hard for you

to say good-bye, I know. Me too.) Just

anxious to be off, having checked in with your Turtle.

*

Be free, my boy. Be safe and

brave, curious and

adventurous, and

as difficult as it is to say good-bye,

keep checking in. I like meeting your friends.

(I write my way, I write my way, I write my way to you.)