My shattered cursive only listens when there’s nothing to hold onto.
But lucky me. I have you, today, and all your offending intentions.
You told me once that all we had was time. Plenty. Later, later,
later. The delays that add up to the empty space between breaths.
Perhaps I am someone else’s song. But I used to be the old, dusty road
that led to your stream.
You could get gone. But you won’t. I know this. It’s not me you’re
worried about. The unfairness is what you despise. Too bad. It’s my
universe now. You had your turn last week.
Oh, that hypnotic glow when I’m in the room? The one that takes your
breath? (Yes, I saw that.) I can’t say if it should affect you so.
This is not my emotional storm to weather.
If it’s easier, you can keep trying to be guarded until you have nerve
damage. We can keep on being together alone. Or, I can teach you
things. I can make you burn hotter than an August moon. It’s actually
a hobby of mine, teaching men. I like to put them back together,
rebuild their egos.
“Please, takers, take more.”
The truth is my fate almost always suffers in my own hands. It adds to
my confusion, like that ridiculously adolescent silent treatment so
recently doled out.
Back when I was the Queen of every night, our love was still more
meaningless than the sex in our marriage. Maybe you’ve forgotten.
Anyway, I really only have one question before we proceed: Have I’ve
ever looked so good without you?
Thinkingtoohard is a former kickass journalist. She now kills her
time as a pseudo-wife, snarky girlfriend, mother, and frequent
blogger. This week, she earned a scholarship to the Word Changing
Writers Workshop. Find her stuff at Camroc Press Review, Indie Ink,
Freak Revolution, or at her -