it’s sticky on the porch tonight,
crickets, cries, clouds of nothing;
the hum of ac units and boredom
and the ache of my thighs,
shallow drags of tar as I wait
for the man who loves me
to really love me.

sometimes our home feels hollow,
but maybe it’s just my heart
wishing for more than the repetition,
the waiting, the dull pulse of waking
moments in the heat of the end
of everything;
but maybe I just need
for the man who loves me
to really love me