Three nights ago we both put on
our brightest clothes and traveled
into a vast arena joining
thousands upon thousands,
who mostly being teenage girls,
reverent of your fame,
spent all their breath on shouting,
squealing, shrieking out your name.
Their cries of “TAYLOR!” didn’t
keep us from together sharing
talk of Nashville, music’s future.
Your face looked stunning as you spoke,
you made your points, and smiled.
I wish I had some pictures now;
you sure had my heart dialed.
But as you took the stage
and started strumming your guitar
to Mean, and Shake It Off,
and 22, and Tell Me Why,
a thought attacked me suddenly;
I turned to you confused.
“How can you sit next to me
yet be on stage?” I deftly mused.
You didn’t find this troubling,
or wrong, or even weird,
instead you winked and changed
the subject, leaving me concerned.
When came night’s end, we parted ways,
but in me stirred some warning.
No satisfying explanation;
I broke things off by morning.