More Than Useful

Sometimes I wonder
if love still knows my address,
or if, after loss,
it has stopped knocking.

I am older now.
I know how much a promise weighs
when you must lift it every day.
I know the sound of someone breathing
and the silence after.

Could I learn another man
by the warmth of his shoulder,
tell him the small, foolish things,
sleep without keeping watch?

Could trust return slowly,
not asking me to forget,
but making room beside
what I will always remember?

I am afraid of being chosen
for my capable hands,
of hearing “I need you”
and wondering whether
there is room for me to need.

Is there a man who wants my laughter,
my opinions, my unruly wishes –
not a policy against his loneliness,
not someone to keep the house of him
from falling down?

I am not looking for a man
to live with,
but a companion to sit beside me,
to share the thoughts I carry
and the feelings I cannot always name.
We could go home to separate houses
and still feel understood.

I would bring tenderness.
I would bring all these years.
But I want a hand that reaches back,
someone who asks what hurts
and stays to hear the answer.

Sometimes I still wish for such a companion.
That is the quiet ache of it:
to know what I would welcome,
to have so much left to share,
and no longer believe
that someone will meet me there.