Tuesday, February 2, 2016

To All the Things I Don’t Know About You

I don’t know the name of the dog who slept in your bed as a child. I don’t know the street you grew up on, but I know the town. I don’t know if you think breakfast is the most important meal of the day or if you would rather just wait until lunch. I do know you drink coffee.


I’ve never known who you voted for in all the past elections, though I do know your politics are complicated. I think I know what kind of car you drive, but not if you buy new or used. I do know you laughed when I said I don’t believe in car payments, not unless I have to. I don’t know why that’s funny.

I don’t know what you do when it’s 3:00 am and you can’t sleep. I don’t know if you believe in a soul, but I do think all souls are restless. I don’t know if you have ever been out of the country, but I do know you would love Ireland. Everyone loves Ireland. It’s a rule.

You hate rules. I know that. Especially the ones that apply to you.

I don’t know your secrets, but I think I know your hopes. We can hide our secrets so much better than we can hide our hopes. 

I don’t know what you did last Tuesday. I don’t know what you said to the man at the checkout at the grocery store. I don’t know what station you have preset on your car radio. I don’t know if you listen to the radio or just plug in your own music.

I know what you want me to know.

Everything else is just a guess.

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