i couldn't help but wonder what he thought of me
as i watched him slide his legs
over to the other side of the bed.
his long hair hanging down his back,
the three moles by his shoulder blades.

the child in me wanted to
connect the dots in an equilateral triangle,
but i stifled the impulse and
watched him lace his boots.

i wondered why he put his shoes on first,
and hid a smirk under his pillow
as he crossed the room nearly naked
with clicking heels across the floorboards.

he opened up his cigarette case, took one out
tucked it behind his ear, and buttoned up his shirt,
missed a button, started over.
his routine humbled him, i saw he wasn't superhuman.

comparitively, i felt so young
and much less lived, and i wanted to be taken seriously,
as i fingered a braid in my hair and
bit my lip uncertaintly,
scratched a knobby knee, and stretched my hands
to my elbows, squeaking out a yawn.

i caught him looking at me, and he smiled.
he was such poetry. i'd never need
to read another sonnet to know
that every over-said word could be overshadowed
just by him looking at me.

i wanted to voice this to him
but was too embarrassed to be vulnerable,
and blushed whole-bodied instead.

before he lit his cigarette
he kissed my forehead and covered me
with his white quilt
that seeped his scent around me.

and as fleeting as a poem
that abruptly ends too soon...

i never got a chance to
hang on to his last words.

06/23/2005

Posted on 06/23/2005
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer