don't be a stranger

When you get a good look at her
as so many told you to do,
You will only see past her to a yellow-toned wall.
And when you try to tell them
What you saw
your throat will squeeze shut tighter and tighter
And you will recall a certain urge to scrape at familiarity
Because she was only just right here.

She is not sad that you don't recognize her.
How could you know her? What have you shared in all this time
Besides the hour of the day and the worries of the weather?
And every time she picked at her nails,
And you noticed how one was so long and the other bitten to the nub,
You thought of how such a small thing so disturbed you, and you pulled your eyes toward it.

There is nothing left to mend because there is too much comfort lying between you.
But it is an uneasy kind of gnawing when you open the door,
And her face is contorted,
desperate,
And full of feeling.
It is wet and swollen from hours of obscurity,
And you feel as if you have just watched her
Being hauled onto shore from a wretched storm.
But she prefers it when you close her door back,
And the conversation goes ignored.

There is nothing left to mend because
You do not know who walked away first.
Affection grows tiresome with age;
Questions only exasperate.
There is no more excitable babble to her stories,
and her stories have become few to none.
And either way, you will not listen quite as intently.

You told her to grow up for so many years
that she has aged beyond yours.
So when she leaves again,
After such an agonizing visit where you fidgeted and fussed over every detail for her,
She will dissipate all too fast
With no trace
Or smell that floats in the air
And sticks to the furniture.

You'll say 'don't be a stranger' to preserve some kind of well-meaning tradition,
but it always dries up in your throat
When she looks at you so disappointed.