Learning to Apologize With Silence

So you might tell me what's really bothering you:

I'm wearing my best I-believe-you-when-you-say-you're-fine face,

keeping my eyes on the cheese grater road for our safety, but mainly

so you don't shut down at the first wrinkled indication that I'm only

pretending not to know my witless words opened up an old wound.

I turn the dial up on the radio — loud enough to hear 'cause allll of me

pouring from John Legend's mellifluous throat, quiet enough

for you to show me the love-scar I nicked with my knife-tongue.

I want to say I'm sorry but I was taught it's important to know first

what you're seeking forgiveness from. I want to feel your man-tears

cascading, in a masculine way, down my rust-brown corduroy jacket;

for you to feel safe in your shadows, unashamed that the brambles

of her sometimes remind you of my thorny tendencies. I don't know

how you feel (because you refuse to) so I imagine your heart

as an African Baobab, fragmenting quietly in an elusive savanna.

I imagine building a village around your loneliness. It's not much

at first, but I water you each day, plant star grass and watch

your fruit begin to grow. One day, I'll wake from our hut-

home after a Sahara siesta and come outside to find

you, glowing with the red oats and towering confusion of chestnut

and eggshell, the burning-violent sun setting in it's own time.

Instead, I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and place

my right one above your knee, so you can feel my sole intention

is to love you — even if it takes patience, even when it requires

more watering, even if dirt gets under my fingernails in the process.