I Already Knew

You sat me down with that shake in your voice, like you were handing me something to break. Baby, I saw you at seven light up at the thing you light up at still. I've folded your laundry for sixteen years — I know your heart like the back of the hill. You came in tonight all rehearsed and afraid, hands twisting the hem of your shirt. And the only thing breaking in me, child, is that you carried this long in the dirt. You thought you were telling me something new — oh, my love, look at you — I already knew. I've known since the kitchen light, since you were small. There was nothing you could've said that would've changed it at all. Whoever you love, whoever you are — I already knew. I kept the porch light on every Friday, not waiting to find out — waiting for you. You don't owe me a single apology, there's nothing in this house to undo. I'd do the whole sixteen years over, skinned knees and the slammed-shut door — and I'd pick you, exactly this you, every time and a hundred times more. You thought you were telling me something new — oh, my love, look at you — I already knew. I've known since the kitchen light, since you were small. There was nothing you could've said that would've changed it at all. Whoever you love, whoever you are — I already knew. And one day you'll stand at your own front door, porch light gold in the rain, and somebody small will come to you scared — and you'll know exactly what to say. You'll say it the way I'm saying it now: nothing to fix, nothing to fear — I already knew. I've known since the kitchen light, since you were small. There was nothing you could've said that would've changed it at all. Whoever you love, whoever you are — I already knew. So put down the speech, come sit by me. I already knew. Come, let me see.