Always the other woman.

Not the reality.

The fantasy.



Maybe that’s what I want or subconsciously seek.



To be only that.  The fantasy of one (or many).



Maybe I’m scared

that I’m not worth the real trueness of deep,

selfless, intimate love…

but rather

the “go-to girl” for their passionate, heat-of-the-moment,

over-the-top-excitement and

momentary bliss.



Always adored.

Never treasured and truly

cherished.

Not for one’s self entirely.



Always for a moment.

Never forever.

It’s always; “shhhhhhh… honey,

quiet your passion, I’ll call you later.”

It’s never now.

Always later.



A generously fulfilling future is always over the horizon.

I’m able to touch and feel it.

Just never hold it

or keep it

for my own.



Always the other woman…

The one that rescues you from yourself,

your miseries,

your lover or

lack thereof.

But who rescues me?

Who takes me in,

Like a bird with broken wings and

Keeps me?…



Tasting me on your lips

so sweet

The moment is always just that.

A moment.



I lose myself in them sometimes.

Thinking for a moment

That they could be mine.

Truly.

Fooling myself in the “if only’s…”, just for that second.

Forgetting what some many others

Have forgotten.



It’s always a moment.



Quiet my passion now.

My innermost feelings.  Renounce them.



“Be happy with what I’ve been given.” I tell myself.

That piece of you.

That tiny fragment.

A miniscule facet of what lies within you.

Don’t ask for more

It doesn’t exist…



…but for a moment.

In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.