Too Much. I Know.
Listen, friends. I probably either didn’t care about you or even like you
for a long time. Sorry about that. Inevitably, there was a moment—
something you said or did, or just exposure over time— when
I realized I was wrong, again, and we should be friends. Forever.
There is almost nothing that can undo this now,
whatever your wishes to the contrary—sorry again.
And while I’m good for a laugh or two, this moment marks
the beginning of everything getting generally worse for you.
I’ll forget your birthday, text too often, email too much
fail to ask important follow-up questions, make you read my poetry,
tell meandering anecdotes at a displeasing pitch or volume,
defend the person you are angry with, interrupt your story
with one of my own that is vaguely related, and maybe better.
But probably worse.
I’ll be decent at unimportant marks of friendship of my choosing,
like remembering your aunt’s quirks, and terrible at any that really matter.
But I’ll think kindly about you more than you’d suppose.
I’ll manage to suffocate and fail you with my love, simultaneously.
All this, I think you know. You are not too many in number,
but you are not alone. So, be irritated, perhaps, but not overwhelmed.
I can’t help it. Because once I’m finally done casually disliking you,
I can’t fully comprehend your importance to me.
- Katyhryn Guelcher 2013