“Tap,” beckoned the door,
A, “knock,”
And signature I’d never forget –
Cross the “t’s, “dot the “i’s,”
An empty night’s forged check
And liquor paved path to be,
To bed, it’s her, it’s her.

It’s also 3:10 AM,
Better than PM,
Where I’m still awake,
Still at work,
And as always,
Annoyed by the nuisance of
Another.

I don’t say “hi,”
And far from reluctantly,
She grabs a beer,
The only cold one I’ve got,
Frail fingered, cry-stain eyed,
And fresh off the ultimate high,
Love, and again.

She hovers to my room,
A natural,
Where she walks with closed lids
Guided by music that’s
Remnant and
Leaking phantoms
From speakers spiting souls –

And it’s
The song she always played,
And it’s, “ours,”
Once a favorite of mine,
And it’s now if only a melody,
Destroyed by repetition and her
Obsession with “echoes.”

I endure.

It's been three weeks
Since you ripped my heart
Straight out of my chest

Yet you're walking the streets
With her on your arm -
Your new marvelous quest

While I do not consider
Myself to be picturesque,
Lovely, or striking

I am daintier
And not impressed
With your exquisite timing

She holds a pulse,
That is the truth
A sad one, at that

But she's merely an impulse
A spur of your youth
Which you will soon regret

where are the songs about
the wrong girl,
the not-quite-right girl,
the in-between girl?

we exist.

we tell ourselves that we are
no one's one-night-stand,
no one's rebound,
no one's flavor-of-the-week,

but
we would give anything to be
someone's last dance,
someone's first choice,
someone's only hope.

is there so much that is "wrong" with us?

we are flawed.
we are vulnerable,
we are lonely,
we are cynical and shy...

but
we are also proud,
we are strong,
we are fearless and exquisite,

and we are worth more than “happily-ever-after.”

Why can't they see me?
See past the pretty hair, cute face, long legs and thin waist.
They don't see me.
Rebound is what I'm made out to be.
They come falling back into my arms, heart big and warm.
I catch them.
I'm not to sure why I do, but the is heart worn, not at all new.
So why am I the rebound girl when there's so much I have to offer?
Smarts, talent and skin that's much softer.
I stand here questioning myself, but it ends with laughter.
I answer myself quite a bit faster...."It's not me, it's them"
All they really need is a friend.
Have I tried and tried to be there, and they still don't care.
Why? Because they don't see me.

Your ***** seek what your heart cannot bear to take

I really want to know
Why would anyone have children
If they knew how afraid it would make them feel?
But then we ask for more
Because the fear is the only thing that makes life real

Who lives on the dark side
But smiles walking down mean streets?
She brings her own eyes to see the light and nothing else
The flowers don’t know any better
And neither does a girl who doesn’t believe hope melts

I really want to know
What are the things you won’t tell me
Did you decide to wait before you forget your last boy?
I said don’t hold my hand right now
So you went out alone but you weren’t anybody’s toy

It makes no difference
If we found gold on the land
We don’t climb mountains just because of the view
I could remember it more than once
But instead I live it because it reminds me of you

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.