what we had to ask

I hope we talk later.
There are some things I want to ask you
that I'll have forgotten by then,

and in the agonizing reaching after them,
we'll end up talking about everything
else. And that will become

the point. Always more than
good enough. But days from now, maybe
I'll remember what I wanted to ask. It's sure
to come up again, since it's about you,

maybe about what you would do, or what
you wanted to do that time, that thing you said
or started to, but distracted as we were
already moving on, and since

I don't know it.

Those things always come up again,
and part of you smiles and waves, like
oh, there you are, thought! I was just
thinking about you the other day.

I'm going to tell you something
quite creepy. In general, I want to know
everything about you

except the things you want to keep to yourself.
Not those, but just everything else you'd want
to tell, if you thought anyone else was
interested. I find it a little weird myself,
that I want to know that. What good

is all this knowledge of you? What is it all
leading to? I want to know that, too, but
I think somehow all the taking in and adding up
is part of the answer. No single question
could get there. It has to proceed at the pace
of the questions that come up on the way, and
the answers given out without any question
to prompt them. At the pace of everything else
that comes up

in the course of trying to remember
what we had to ask.