It's the soft, aching, tender moments
With the cold Seattle sun low in its grey winter sky
It's the washing machine humming and churning
It's ******* at the dregs of tea leaves in my mug
It's a culmination of harmless, yet empty, moments,
creating a yawning gap-
What should be, what will be,

Well, anything could happen before that.

I crave an old romantic, poetic love
Of broken chimes and crushed foxgloves
Of coffee stains upon the table,
And early light slipping through the window
Of shuttered eyes and tired hearts,
Of hopeful lies and ancient arts,
A love sweet off wild honey,
And of fresh bread and melancholy
Of battle wounds and salty tears,
Of lasting throughout the years,
Of endings bitter and yet cathartic
Of weathering an endless arctic,
And love with a thread-bare string,
A wish, a tender, tethered thing,
I crave an old romantic notion
Of tested, sure emotion
And love, that which does not age,
Manifests so easy, off the page.

Sometimes I wander to my broken heart, though,
I whisper the names which used to make it sing,
I take it out to the Ocean
And cast a line out to find the missing pieces
But what I told you, the truth is,
I wouldn't want them back
Because then I'd miss this,
These fishing trips.

My ex deserved perfect
A man's wife kind of wife,
An honest, hard working life

He deserved a woman who could be kind,
Compassionate and intuitive with him,
Laugh with all his friends,

A wife who didn't question too much,
Made and cleaned up after lunch,
Someone just good enough in bed

Someone smart but not too well-read,
A wife who would follow where he led.
A woman that he would happily wed,

Is a perfect woman I could never be
(And I hope one day, that he can see
In someone what he once saw in me).

A perfect woman, is what he sought
And he deserves perfect,
But no one is perfect

So that's what he got.

I used to be part of someone else's story.
So I know what it's like to come in, unannounced,
To read the sticky chapters before me.
To leave enough pages for when I'm not around.

It's a little melancholy.
You awaken feelings which pang and pull,
A soreness from misuse, feelings full of
Memory.
And I am too old now to follow them through
The way I want to