So maybe I’m not like your ex-wife:
I don’t use Ben Wa balls
while shopping for lingerie.
And maybe I don’t wear lingerie. Or lipstick.
Yet my tits always put on their own show.
(I didn’t think they were perfect until you told me so.)
I’m only neurotic, not actively psychotic.
But wouldn’t you just once prefer
an overcast day, calm in its melancholy,
to the tornado’s siren warning?
And maybe your friends tease you
for seeing someone who uses the word
façade in casual conversation.
Maybe I’m woefully academic,
but I never expected you to read Flaubert.
You tell me I mistake mothering for love.
When I ask if you got enough sleep,
if you stopped to eat during your shift,
you snap, “Don’t worry over me!”
A slap to the face would have stung less.
Finally, I abandon you
to your wild drinking ways.
To the chaos and the women
whose scratches bloody your back
during another quick fuck.
You’ll continue mostly alone,
as will I. Solitude, a better lover
than we ever were to each other.
