45 Degrees

It's been three weeks since I've seen you 

Which probably means it's been three days for you 

Considering your sense of time

Has little to do with the calendar.

Sometimes I smell your hair on the subway,

Someone must be using a similar shampoo

Well, if that were possible 

Since there's nothing imitable about you. 

Remember when we were scared to use the word love?

Thought it might suggest more than what was there?

Yes, you surely remember 

But often I fear you pretend to forget.

What attracts me to you 

Occasionally repels me 

Like your blissful indecisiveness 

And nonstop curiosity. 

That comes with the territory, I suppose

Though what kind of territory are we in?

Limbo, purgatory, heaven and hell combined,

Maybe a seesaw stuck at 45 degrees.

It might be three more weeks before I see you 

Which probably means you'll see me in three hours 

Except I've concluded you don't measure time, 

Merely the space between complicated feelings.

Sam Hendrian

ABOUT THE POET:

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent films about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated. More work can be found on Amazon, YouTube, and in various online literary magazines.