Years later I wake in the night and remember
the way he banged on my bedroom door.
He was drunk and he begged me to let him in.
I was in my dorm room bed, and my best friend
was visiting. The interruption angered her
and she hissed in the dark, Don’t you dare.
I told him to go away. He didn’t.
He pounded and begged and shouted.
Please, he said, before I heard him crumple
at the base of the door where I believe
he fell asleep. By morning, he was gone.
It wasn’t only my door I had closed,
it was my heart. I didn’t understand then
that I was too frightened to let him in.
I didn’t comprehend how our fear
makes us small. Years later, I want
to open the door. I want to meet him
before the drunken night and tell him, I hear you.
I want to thank him for bringing me his heart.
I want to tell myself, You are capable
of sharing difficult feelings. I want
to write a new night and walk with him
through the dark, the only pounding
our fragile hearts.