kissing boys with long hair
at parties that smelt like bad decisions,
and surviving on liquor so strong
that I would forget my own name,
simple to try and remove that awful taste
you left in my mouth.

I want to look in the mirror and get butterflies
I want to become my own lover’s eyes

its so strange that I am the person who knows me best
and we still haven’t fallen in love yet

Looking at myself at arms length I can honestly say
I know your November birthday
and the way the Beatles make you twist and shout
I know your favorite books from cover to cover,
the magical mysteries you couldn’t live without
You hate monkeys, oranges and lies
you love horses, strawberries and quirks
you paint your eyelids a light silver every morning
just to hide the places that have so often hurt
I feel your every tear graze my eternally rosy cheeks
I know that Sunday mornings are the best parts of your weeks
I know what you love and I know what you need,
why won’t you take a chance on loving me?

A woman with weary eyes, wearing a white wool blouse waits for the walk sign while watching the cars converge at the concrete confluence of a crowded intersection.