Now that I'm over you,
pickup trucks don't bother me anymore.
Red ones, green ones, old ones, and even older ones.
I don't think about summer nights in their beds,
nor first kisses in their cabs.
Now that I'm over you,
I can walk around our town with no problem.
I can go antiquing with no issue,
and I can walk the pawn shops without crying.
I don't want to hold your hand,
and I certainly don't want you sneaking kisses at the farmer's market.
Now that I'm over you,
your sister and I can be friends.
I don't see your face in hers at all.
I don't hear your voice in her words, either.
I'm always surprised when she mentions you,
because you've not been on my mind at all.
Now that I'm over you,
I can fall in love again.
I can smile back at a stranger and catch their eye.
I know that I'll be fine.
I know that I don't want you anymore.
I never (write it!) miss you, either.
Thank God that I'm am over you.

I saw you on the street again today.
You were over in that stranger's eye.
I felt the little spark you lit,
just to say that you still can.
I heard you on the radio twice.
You were singing about the way you taste,
just in case that I forgot.
You sang about me,
how I'll never find another you.
I smelled you on the breeze this morning,
after you left, when the sun came up.
You left a trail through the blinds.
I kept my eyes shut, to let you stay.
But even when I know you're gone,
all I can sense is you.

We aren't keepers anymore.
They've stopped taking us home to meet their mothers.
They mask our names with cute little lies in their cell phones.
They take us out, but only after dark,
when we disappear into the walls
and camouflage into the bar stools.
With every drink, our eyes dance darker,
our lashes grow longer,
our lips flush redder,
our hair flies wilder,
our hips swing looser,
our nails dig deeper.
We leave the Madonnas alone in their wicker beds,
fading smaller into the back of their minds,
as we slowly take over.
With our foreheads kissing theirs
and their lips brushing ours,
for the night, the Madonnas are the ones that meant nothing to me, baby.
For the night, they're ours forever.
For the night, they will never let us go.
We almost forget that in the morning,
we aren't keepers anymore.

Do you remember our bulletproof afternoons?
The ones downtown wandering the pawn shops, looking for nothing.

Remember the antique Coca-Cola bottles you loved?
Remember the good deals on the old Nintendos?
Remember kisses you gave me in the back of the store?
Remember pretending the cameras couldn't see me touch you?

Remember holding my hand outside?
Remember your hand on my waist?
Remember the rain on the sidewalk?
Remember me laughing?

Remember the old books on the shelves?
Remember me stroking their spines?
Remember me writing my own stories about how they got there?
Remember watching me and loving that?

Remember the jewelery?
Remember the bracelets and necklaces?  The trinkets of broken loves?
Remember the rings?
Remember watching me sooth the lonely rings through the glass?
Remember what I said?
Remember how it broke our hearts, to see them broken beneath the glass?
Remember how the engravings broke our hearts?
Remember how you held my hand and kissed my shoulder?
Remember how you told me not to worry?

Do you remember pawning my ring?
Remember pocketing the cash?
Remember watching the pawn man place it beneath the glass?
Remember the couple holding hands, hearts breaking over my ring?

Do you remember breaking their hearts?

I was no tiny dancer.
Maybe, once,
before you and me.
Maybe I pointed my toes and held my head high.
But I forgot how to pirouette and jete.

I know you thought you held me up.
I know you thought you fixed me.
But, my little partner,
you never stood a chance.
I'm sorry, my darling.
I tripped into your arms and you did all you could.
You held me crying and watched me dress.

I loved the lilies.
Even though they never came,
I loved the lilies.

I'm so sorry, Tom,
that when I tripped, I knocked you down.
I'm sorry I chened into someone else's arms
to learn how to dance again.

I hope someday you find a partner.
I hope she loves your lilies.
I hope she loves your danse russe.

How long will you make me wait?
Twist the blade or try to ease it out.
Whichever you chose,
just do it already.
Stop standing over me, flaunting your power
and refusing to yield it.

Tell me when my faithful waiting turns into holding on too long.
Bring an end to this chapter, so I can justify my means.
Take your chivalry and go.
Take your morals and store them next to my blue earrings and the lily from my hair.
Take your guilt and rest your head on its lap while you drift off.
Take your duty and teach it to line up a shot.
Take your 'right thing' and tell it I am wrong.

Leave me unrequited, just light a fire beneath me when you go.
Give me names to scream at your back,
and a reason to slam the door behind you.
Leave me angry and fuming, let me hate you
and be glad you're turning your heel.
Tell me you didn't understand me at all.
Tell me you didn't see every part of me.
Tell me you hated the way my eyes looked at that little girl
Tell me that you lied.
Tell me you tell everyone your secrets.

Or call me again.
Call me and say you're sorry.
Say you called because you couldn't stay away.
Say you made promises to want to keep.
Say forgiving you doesn't make me weak.
Say you're trying
and say someday,
somehow.
Say you love me too.
Say you want to ease this blade out of me.

Or dear God, please just twist it.

Every day he sat in his chair,
His ratty, tuna-colored, reclining marshmallow .
And every day, his happy little girl jumped up
and sink next to the armrest.
He kissed her hair and then she grinned.
He put his arm around her and she nuzzled his side.
“Where will Daddy always be?”
“Right here with me.”

The days meandered while the years pounced upon him.
His little girl traded her dresses for suits.
She blossomed and flourished,
Through the schooling and the moving vans,
and just as she foretold,
he was right there with her.

Until they day the doctor found it.
The lump, the break, the bubble, it wasn’t important what.
He knew the time had been floating around him, waiting to pounce,
but it knocked him down farther than he knew it could.

Now every day she sits in his chair.
His ratty, tuna-colored, reclining marshmallow.
And every day, his happy little girl stands at his side
Then sits firmly atop the wooden chair next to the armrest.
He points to his IV and she adjusts his line.
He puts his arm out and she leans forward.
“Where will Dad always be?”

No answer.