The Cage We Cannot See

 by Thinkingtoohard

You didn’t tell me we were too different.
Or that your job was too time-consuming.
Or that you might be in love with me. Or that you were just too fucking scared.
You didn’t say I was too good for you, or not good enough.
You didn’t tell me she was pregnant, nor did you share your real name.
You didn’t say anything of substance, actually.
Just “I can’t.”
And that doesn’t leave much to weigh, other than possibility.
The heavy burgundy drapes would have been closed against the orange
glow of the parking lot lamps, shutting out our spouses. And I
definitely would have watched your chest rise and fall under the downy
blankets, so I could ingrain it on my memory. Because later, I would
need to recall that time, reassuring myself it was not another 3 am
visceral fantasy.
Then I would marvel at the gods again for having the grace to share you with me.
The kiss truly was a prelude. A taunting, warm, wet recollection of
who we are beneath the caricatures. Her Husband and His Wife, and Mom
and Dad, and all the things we pretend to be for the sake of
propriety.
Your brilliant smile pulled up the corners of your mouth and showed
off your dimples. It told me you were afraid. Your soft lips on mine
told me the fear was your lion to tame, and that you were more than
capable.
It’s counter-intuitive, I know, to stand against the biting cold yet
feel the blaze within.
We peeked through the plexiglass walls, realizing too late that they
weren’t thick enough to guard our wounded egos. We were exposed and it
was okay, maybe for the first time.
Pieces of lovely blue sky and warmth, woven with tryst, raw emotion,
need. The universe was about to grant our innermost unspoken wish.
My hands trembled with joy and anticipation; yours with trepidation.
The lion’s cavernous jaws had ripped off too many chunks of your
steely flesh. In the end, you thought it easier to let him consume
you.
So, no, the lies don’t count. But I cannot restore you. Your faith
must come of its own accord.
Our fountain pen is poised over the paper, dripping great blots of black ink.
Please. Slay the lion.

Thinkingtoohard is the girl next door. Keep an eye on your husband. She is proud this week that she has not lost her cool with her own husband, and it's Wednesday already!
She writes here: http://thinkingtoohard13.wordpress.com

Between The Lines

by Thinkingtoohard

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 -

place.