Closing Doors Not Open

I think I must be odd
 because I form close friendships and believe
  that if you think a person's swell you should tell them so.

In exchange I've received a steady series
 of awkward Dear John letters
  by friends attributing phantom motives.
In some cases I never hear from them again.

St. Paul MN five five one
 PM
  24 Aug 1999
   I hold in my hand a new one.

This one perhaps I asked for
 I mailed a poem far too terse
  for a thousand miles separation
   and the affection it stated was read as love.

I think of other times this has happened
 and what I've done
  or wanted to do
   every girl save two has come to this point;
    the two I beat them to it.

Self-blame is always invoked, a ready god
 I led you on, I shouldn't have
  carried you over those rocks
  spoken to you gently
  listened when you hurt
And in that sunny afternoon
 or early that evening
  or late that night
   I said something I oughtn't
   and what will I ever do.

Like an old sage I wish I could lean back
 twirl my moustache
  stroke my long beard
   and puff a bit on an etched glass hookah
Before venturing a wise reply:
  Words are cheap
  Things unsaid are never known
  Compliments unpaid vanish forever
  True praise given sincerely blesses the hearer.
  So what are your troubles, my child?

I'd close my eyes, study my eyelids
 and mumbling drift to sleep as
  my listeners pondered my meaning
   and puzzled.

But I'm not an old sage
 I am a callow young man
  knowing his youth better each year
   and my moustache and beard are thin.

So I sit, and I think,
 and I wonder what to say
  before letting slip
   "I understand,"
    and hoping they do, too.
                            --CSA, 28-aug-1999. 5:31pm.