Fast Enough for You

A million things could have happened
in the time between when you said goodbye and when you closed the door behind you.

In the spirit of a sappy movie montage,
you could have turned and, with tears in your eyes,
thrown your arms around me,
changing your mind and swearing that you could never breathe unless I was near.

You could have tripped on your way to the door --
we would have laughed, and I'd have offered my hand to help you up,
and when you gripped it, you'd remember the way it fit
and realize that your fingers call the spaces between mine home.

Maybe I should have called out to you,
begged you not to leave me,
confessed every feeling that I've ever had for you,
confessed that you are my core.

With your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob,
you could have pictured my sad and lonely self
sitting in the green chair behind you,
and finally decided that I am beautiful enough for you.

You could have stared hard into my eyes before turning,
read all the words on the grocery list of everything I wanted to tell you,
forgiven me for being less than what you needed in your life right then,
and surrendered your pride to a lifetime with the one who makes you laugh.

The moments it took you to

close your mouth,
turn away,
place one foot before the other roughly eight times,
open the door,
and close it

were not long enough for me to commit all of you to memory,
for me to take all of you in;

but the click of the latch
in the brass handle
couldn't have come
fast enough for you.