A man stopped me on the sand today.
Frenchman from Italy with hair like snow and orange skin
with freckles like a kaleidoscope on his body.
He was forty but found promise in the ripeness
of my eighteen year old body.
Asked me to take shots of *** with him later
once it got real dark out.
I just smiled and said alright,
nodded my head and kicked the sand up at my heels.
Most would have been so offended,
charged some order, called someone up.
I was just flattered.

I like to know I'm desired by somebody.
because you don't make me feel
hardly anything
anymore.
You just pick and pry at the parts you want of me
until I'm out of ways to put you back together
even if it's only partially
or for only a short time.

I like to know I'm wanted by somebody,
because sometimes I have to beg for you to look at me.
You just sit with a beer in your fist
staring at the walls for an answer you won't find
at the bottom of all the years you've drowned yourself in.

You didn't even notice I had left.
So even though I'll come home, sit safely in your arms
until the gleam wears off my eyes and the towns talking all about
that good girl that fell in love too deeply
with a brute who won't tell her she's beautiful.

But I want you to know I like it.
I like feeling the sensual looks on my skin.
I like a compliment from someone who doesn't know me well,
because you do and I hear nothing
nothing at all from you.

You make me feel like I could never come back
and it wouldn't make a difference to you.

But I can and I will.
You know it too.