We’ve found ourselves
      caught in a polite standoff—
      you: wanting me to go first,
      me:  stubbornly holding out
      for your white-flag whisper.

It’s turned into a dance
     neither of us choreographed,
     a careful circling,

     each trying to outlast the other’s patience.

I want you first.
You want me first.
Each of us determined to be the period that ends this sentence.

And suddenly—
    it’s a contest
    neither of us meant to enter,

    a race we’re both winning. (or losing, depending on who you ask)

Your frustration builds
     because you think I’m holding back,
     and mine, because I am—

     but only so you can let go first.

You, first.

Because the truth is—
     I’m already there,
     already past finish lines and thresholds,
     and the longer we linger,

     the more impossible it becomes for either of us to claim victory.

Maybe next time,
      we drop the script—
  forget who comes first,
                 or last,
               or at all.

Maybe tonight,
      we just…
         fall.

     Together.