Not like that

He doesn’t like me the way I am. Not really. He likes the parts that are quiet, easy, folded neatly into the corners of his day. He likes the me that doesn’t take up too much room. The me that doesn’t ask what he means when he says “nothing’s wrong.” He doesn’t like the way I ask questions. Too many, too often. Like I’m trying to take the temperature of something that’s already gone cold. He sighs when I ask are you okay? He sighs like I should already know. But I don’t. I never know. It takes me a while to understand things words, silences, the weight in a pause. I process slow. Like honey trying to understand gravity. He doesn’t like when I mess up. When I forget things. When I’m late, again to somewhere that probably doesn’t matter as much as he makes it sound like it does. He rolls his eyes when I can’t find my keys. Or when I trip over my own shoes in the doorway.