Dilution
I knew you when your whole world
fit inside one rented room.
When there were three names on the calendar and nowhere else you
had to be.
You used to call me from the sidewalk
just to tell me how it went.
Now I hear about the good news from somebody else instead.
No one took you from me.
No
one had to.
There was just less of you each time.
A little for the investors.
A little for the board.
A little for the people you couldn’t disappoint
anymore. And I know that’s how it happens.
I know nobody’s to blame.
But every time the company grew,
my share of you got smaller still.
Then there was a head of something.
Then a person for your press.
Then somebody who could find you
when I couldn’t get a text.
Every dinner had a phone call.
Every weekend had a flight.
Every five-minute conversation
found a way to take the night.
You weren’t leaving. You were needed.
Somehow
that was worse. There was just less of you each time.
A little for the investors.
A little for the board.
A little for the people
you couldn’t disappoint anymore.
And I know that’s how it happens.
I know nobody’s to blame.
But every time the company grew,
my share of you got smaller still.
I remember
being first. First call.
First draft.
First person you told
when you thought it might work.
Then somewhere along the way
I became the last one on the list.
And I told myself
that still meant first.
You still reached for me in your sleep.
You still knew which wine I’d choose.
You still said you loved me like there was nothing there to
lose.
That’s the part I couldn’t argue with.
That’s the part that made me stay.
You can love somebody completely and still give them less each day.
There was just less of you each time.
A little for the investors.
A little for the board.
A little for the life you built and couldn’t put down anymore.
And I know that’s how it happens.
I know nobody’s to blame.
But every time the company grew,
my share of you got smaller still.
Nothing
disappeared.
There was only
more to divide.