Ready When You Are

Ready when you are.

How do you know when I’m ready?

Ready when you are—

and then your foot’s on the pedal, and both of mine are still standing in the dust.

Ready when… when?

Wait for me. Wait for me. Wait for me!

I don’t have a car. I can’t catch up with you on foot.

Can’t you see you drove off without me?

Can’t you see there’s no one in the passenger seat?

Can’t you see—

Ready when you are…

I’m not ready. Come back to me. Don’t leave me here.

I want. I want, I want, I want, all the time.

Everything.

But I can’t. Not yet. I want to fly, but I’ve barely learned to crawl.

Want. Can’t. Without you.

Dust.

You can’t abandon me. You haven’t. You never will.

You said—ready when you are—and sped off before I was ready.

You taught me how to want things, and left me wondering how to do them.

I need you. You want everything too, but you also can. You know. Sometimes I feel you know everything. Sometimes I feel you know me better than I know myself.

Ready when you are.

Does this mean you know I’m ready before I do?