If you’d let me, I bet I could.
If you’d let me, I could be a right ear that is not made of plastic, a big cabbage leaf ear tilted toward the direction of your voice, tilted just so, so that I could take in everything you said, even the pauses, subtle gasps and audible pauses.
If you’d let me, I could rub your temples when you have a headache. I could listen to you bitch. But after a while I’d say, “No offense or anything, but life is too short, so stop your bitchin’." I'd say that with a smile on my face. I’d say that, if you’d let me.
If you’d let me I’d tell you my secrets. I’d warn you first, but if you’d permit it, I’d just go ahead and let the mudslide flow. I wouldn’t try to make excuses or bargains or tic-tac-toe. I’d just say, “This is the messed-up me, and the truth is the messed-up me is the real me, so go ahead--run or call a taxi, I get it.”
If you'd let me I would be the best friend you've had. I'd get you. I'd understand what you were trying to say even if you picked the wrong words or made me read between the lines. I would be selfish and I'd easily forgive.
We could talk about books and film and art. You could show me some things and I could do the same, if you'd let me.
If you'd let me I'd tell you in authentic terms why you are special and why you matter and why it is that the world needs you in it.
I'd make some mistakes, sure I would. But I'd apologize and mean it. I'd show up again, to see if you'd take me back.
If you’d let me, I’d get better. I would. I‘d work on it. On things. I’d learn and practice and assimilate and produce different, more-suitable (and crowd pleasing) actions.
I wouldn't embarrass you in front of your friends or family or semi-famous people you don't know but hope to know.
I'd regenerate, do a Benjamin Button but stop at age eight right before things went south, sour. I'd be that boy inside this man's body, and I'm pretty sure you'd like me then, but it'd all depend on what you could put up with, your stamina, and if you'd let me.
So what do you think?