by Qwriter

She comes
home.
I struggle not to notice
the clock. I pretend to not
be waiting. She goes
directly into the bathroom. I,
I count her steps.
She appears, yawning,
in the kitchen, orbits my chair,
brushes her hand across
my hunched shoulders.
My head aches.
She has removed her dress.
But.
She is wearing,
still wearing the scent of
fresh dick.
My hands tremble. I don't
know her. I love her.
We have discussed this, have
agreed to disagree.
Agreed to look for
separate lodgings while she
looks for/finds herself.
The real-estate ads
blur beneath my
lowered eyes. I am
blinded. My heart is
splintered, tender in all
the wrong places.
She is wearing high
heels & the black
lace teddy that
used to choke me with
desire. Now, I strangle on
something else.
I understand, respect
her right to be
normal. I just
can not figure out
why her being
normal feels so,
so abnormal for me . . .

Copyright © 1997. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.