The Art We Never Learned

I wore the easy smile like borrowed skin, a clean first chord, a practiced way to land. I could read the page, the timing, and the key - but not the quiet language of your hands. We kissed and called it closeness in the dark, warm mouths, cold distance underneath. I knew the shape of wanting, how it sings - but not the part where staying learns to breathe. I learned desire, not devotion, how to shine, not how to stay. I hit the notes in order, and missed what you didn’t say. No one taught us how to hold each other. We practiced everything but love. I learned the song, but not the listening, counting bars to cover up the bruise. No one taught us how. I turned tenderness into something I could manage: a careful rule, a soft voice that could steer. When you reached for me, I named it 'too much', when you stepped away, the room was hard to bear. Pride kept time, a strict and brittle drummer, and control wore the costume of my fear. And when a moment asked for something honest, I entered early, said the line too near. Empty classroom, late light on the floor, chalk on my fingers, nowhere left to hide. I stayed to face the lesson I kept skipping: how to be close without performing 'fine'. No one taught us how to hold each other. We practiced everything but love. I learned the song, but not the listening, counting bars to cover up the bruise. No one taught us how. So let the mind unbutton, let the heart speak plain, let the clever mask come off without a fight. If I tremble, I will name it, nothing more, not make it your job to make it right. If you need room, I’ll bless the space you’re taking, not call it loss, not turn it into proof. Teach me the human tempo - slow and ordinary, where 'yes' and 'no' can both be safe and true. No one taught us how to hold each other, so we’ll learn it, gentle, line by line. We practiced everything but love; now we practice staying without holding too tight. We learn the song by learning how to listen. The art we never learned.