Translation

Last week I said it and meant

rescue.

I meant:

stay.

I meant:

don't leave me here alone.

The person received it

like a promise.

I could see it in their face,

the way they held onto

the word,

the way they believed

I meant

forever.

Yesterday I said it and meant

gratitude.

I meant:

thank you for this moment.

I meant:

I'm glad you exist right now.

But not forever.

Not rescue.

Not stay.

The same words

came out of my mouth,

the same phrase

I've been saying

to different people,

to the same people

on different days,

and each time

it means something

different.

The person yesterday

was listening

the way the person last week

was listening,

like the words

were a declaration,

like I was saying

the thing you're supposed to say

when you mean

the biggest thing.

But I was saying

something smaller.

Something true,

but smaller.

And I felt it

mid-sentence,

felt the lie

of the same words

meaning different things,

felt the weight

of what I was actually

saying

press down

against what they

were hearing.

Their face

showed me

the gap

between what I meant

and what they understood.

I could have corrected it.

I could have said

wait,

I don't mean

forever,

I just mean

right now.

But I didn't.

I let them believe

what they needed

to believe,

let the same phrase

do different work

for different people,

let the lie

of the identical words

cover

the fact

that I'm not

the same person

with the same meaning

twice.

We carry this language

of equivalence,

these phrases

that are supposed

to mean the same thing

every time.

But they don't.

They shift

depending on

who's saying them,

who's hearing them,

what kind of love

you're trying

to describe

with the same

old

words.