I want to tell you about my day

A Poem by Christine Gao

I wrote the one-page essay, and I wanted you to read it. You. I wanted you to see it first. But you were busy, and you didn’t ask for it anyways. Am I bothering you?

I listened and searched for songs I think you’d like, so maybe one day you’d reply with warmth and add my songs to your playlist. I wanted my songs to remind you of me, like the way your songs remind me of you.

But you didn’t react to the songs I sent. I thought you would like them, they reminded me of you. You. You, because I care about you and I think about you.

And I want to text you. I want to tell you about my day, and I want to hear yours too. You don’t have to react to every bubble, you don’t have to reply with something witty or clever. I just want you to read them. I just want you to know. You. You, because you’re special to me. But am I special to you?

So special that you leave me on delivered. So special that I’m waiting at your doorstep two and a half nights. So special that when I enter, it’s cold. I’m drenched, and you offered no warmth. But you’re there, barely, but there. So I didn’t care if you replied with little interest. I blinded myself to your constant distraction. Forgave your shifting eyes and increasing sighs. Because you were there. You. You, because I loved you.

So I grasp every chance I get. The rare, brief moments of life from you. Because you come by once in a blue moon, but how I savor those minutes. So I chew them. Regurgitate and swallow again those sweet moments I had with you. I enjoyed it, but now I’m realizing, maybe you didn’t. So now I’m scared. Scared you don’t feel the same, and never did.

“How was your day?” But I didn’t want to widen the space between us or bring us closer. Because when we got close, we’d splinter. And it hurts. So I dumb myself, and I don’t say anything.

I want to ask you about the girls at your school. Who do you like? Giddy while listening to your love story. Giggling at your embarrassment. I want to know, because it’s you, and I love you.

Who do you think of when you listen to those songs in your playlist? I want to know, because it’s you. You. And it’s you I want to be near with. And maybe you’d ask who those songs reminded me of, and I’d sheepishly say, you.

We walk fast. And it’s loud, there’s so many people taller than us, and the sound waves coming from their throats clash with mine. Whose do you listen to? I said I wanted to be in business, maybe human resources, because I wanted to travel and see the world. I told you first. But all I saw was your back, traipsing in front of me. So I said nothing, because you weren’t. There’s so many people, but I wanted to tell you. You. You because I wanted to be close to you.

I understand, we’re busy. I’m busy too. But somehow I’m always the one who has time to text you. Somehow, I’m the one who asks about your day. Maybe I’m not busy enough. Maybe I have too much time to idle. But thoughts don’t consume too much time, do they? I just think about you, and I wished you’d think about me too. Do the songs we shared remind you of me? But you’re busy. Really busy.

It’s not convenient to maintain a relationship with me, is it? Because you live on the other side of the world, and we have nothing in common other than our age. So if it’s not convenient, would you not get to know me?

So I am pathetic. Asking you how your week was through a google doc. Stupid, black lines across the screen. You won’t see this. Maybe this is my tangible excuse that I tried, again.

How was your day? I want to tell you how my classes went, how I discovered that a boy from church went to my co-op, how it rained and I ran through it with my friends, how much I love my college composition class and hate crossfit. You don’t have to reply with a clever remark, you just have to read it. Read it, and maybe laugh a little. I don’t really care, I just want you to see it. I just want you to know. Do you?