big and giant probably aren’t the right words anymore,
but perhaps unexpected still is.

there were others before you and not really after,
not for a total lack of trying—
although they shared your name despite one.

i suppose that’s how things were around 1980.

one was a total and fleeting fantasy,
just you in a body i’d never reach,
and the other was an even taller cup of coffee
who made me realize that i was still

damaged.

you already know i am, in other ways,
and maybe that’s why i can still imagine
that i’d say yes to anything with you,
casual or not.

perhaps unexpected is still the word because
i don’t know why i imagine in the first place.

then,
the unexpected was a dream
that i wholeheartedly accepted.
and now,
the unexpected is a memory
that i foolhardily revisited.

i suppose hope is not foolhardy,
except this old one is,
because i shouldn’t have had it at 21,
when i saw you every day—
let alone at thirty-one,
when you haven’t seen me since.

i think you’d like me better now,
even if not as i do,
enough to know me over a beer or two
and to let me know you once again—

enough to let me know you one last time,
and for you to know who i’ve become,
that i even became at all.