My dearest dear,
you were never the person
who I wanted to ask
do these pants make me look fat?
Because you would tell me
exactly
how they made me look.
Not in a mean way, but in a
you-asked-so-I-will-tell-you way.
You were, and undoubtedly
still are, honest to a fault.
Endearingly. Annoyingly.
You wanted to listen so closely
to everything around you
even if it meant telling me
to ssshhhuuuusssssh.
Even if you shushed me in the
middle of a thousand screaming
Red Sox fans at Fenway.
Never mind that, because
on our country road
it was your quiet self
I loved to walk with
so we could hear the birds.
I can’t imagine trusting anyone more.
I hope in future I can be as honest
and as trust worthy.
But perhaps I could be
just a bit more sensitive
with my clothing critiques.
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