What I Meant to Tell You

I can't remember now
when it first showed up,
whether or not
it arrived with you.
Regardless,
there it was.

When I first noticed it
I stuck it in a corner.
Often it remained there.
I could carry on
with it out of the way.
Though I did my best
I could not ignore it.
I would see it,
come across it,
trip over it,
while searching
for something else
in the corner.

Occasionally
it would be sitting out.
How hard it was
to ignore!
On other occasions
I'd pull it out,
play with it,
ponder over it,
when I was sure
it would not come open.
But, never for long.
Back it would go.

For years
it was there,
all but forgotten,
able, at last,
to collect some dust.

We were playing a game.
It was only a game.
You resigned.
I couldn't figure out
what you were doing.
Finally, I resigned.
I couldn't think.
I put my head down,
my hands hanging over
the back of the chair.
With the slightest touch
your finger
opened it.
I was scared to look up.
I was scared to see it open.
When I finally looked
there it was
spilling out
everywhere.
I told you it was open,
all you could say was,
"I know."

This is
what I meant to tell you
when all I could say was,
"I love you."

And now
I try to put the lid
back on,
but I can't get it
back on.
I can't ask you,
and I can ask
no one else.
I shove the whole mess
back in the corner.
And though I do my best
I can't ignore it.

Did we say goodbye?