Even if I told you today, you still wouldn’t really know. <br />If I said I wanted to take you away with me one last time, <br />press you to me and talk about it in the night and the rain, <br />or go to a place where we could just be two drops that fall, <br />even then, I am sure, you wouldn’t really know. <br /> <br />Even if I told you today, you still wouldn’t really know. <br />I might try to show you how you’re shaped in my thoughts, <br />how certain memories of you appear as folds of warm paper, <br />and others, the ones that changed us, try to fit into places too small. <br />Even if we look at those now, touch them, you wouldn’t really know. <br /> <br />Even if I told you today, you still wouldn’t really know. <br />I could climb into your smile to show you how big I made it, <br />create a record of your risen breast flesh and let you touch it, <br />or write a book full of clouds that you’d read to recall our perfect ache. <br />Even then, I wonder, would you ever really know? <br /> <br />Even if I told you today, you still wouldn’t really know. <br />I’d let you open colourful boxes of the thoughts I was afraid of, <br />release from them the limping birds that prevented you from believing me, <br />and finally you’d see how you mattered, how you swept through my soul. <br />But, still, you will never really know.<br /><br />Oliver Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/even-if-2/
