Tendencies

I tend to complicate, convolute, make 

castles out of grains of sand. 

You tend to simplify, disinvolve, call 

an unplanned visit to the south of England 

with a pretty stranger, a matter of chance.  

I tend to stay in bed for as long as I can. 

You tend to call me and tell me to be ready 

by noon or else I’m dammed. 

We went to a Brasilian-themed carnival

that day, and then we went to dance.   

I tend to buy one ticket to a musical,

Tell you I’ll go straight from work.

You tend to walk the whole hour and a half,

Just so I won’t walk alone.  

I tend to sensationalise, exaggerate, cod-philosophise. 

I remember I tried to explain to you the beauty of art. 

You tend to downplay, diminish, trivialise. 

Called Stendhal syndrome an erection of the heart. 

But you like that I like art, and you like that I read.

You like that I answer phonecalls quickly, 

And that I sing out loud whenever I please. 

I once forced myself to smile at strangers in the street.

Meanwhile, you high-five them without hesitance. 

Heck, you high-fived me when we first met. 

The only time I touched your hand.   

I tend to shy away from conversations about

romance, and, by unfortunate happenstance, 

you do too. 

Looking back I could’ve said a word or two,

Although I don’t know what I would’ve said. 

Surely something about respect, something 

about morals, and the right thing to do. 

I could’ve even left you. I don’t know why I didn’t.

But I’ve left you now, and while overdue, 

In the end, to tend is the best one can do.