The woman at the bar has warm brown eyes.
I stare at them with my two ancient blues.
Hers look for someone who can sympathize;
Mine see the caution and the hidden bruise.
Mine say: “It’s safe;” and that is why she leans
Into me for a hug that I return—
That lets her shatter into smithereens
With clutching fingers, sobs, and tears that burn.
And we’ll leave separately and never meet
Again, because this momentary sharing
Is not about some passion and its heat
But love’s warm reassuring touch of caring.
And though my ego wants more and feels miffed,
It’s not about me—it’s about my gift.