Hung over, splayed
On the couch
I listen to the hail hit the window
Face nestled in the crook of my arm
Finally I admit to myself
That you’re not going to call
(Although we both knew the lie when you made it)
In this cave of my skin
Half-hearted I list precedents
The events, indications, failed expectations
And marvel at how resilient
My desire to see you is.
A lesser woman would blame you
Citing feminist propaganda
Etcetera, ad nauseum, et al.
I don’t.
Your silence isn’t violence, it’s a monastery.
Your sanctuary. The sound of retreat.
To hide from what you feel for me.
The dangerous girl with blue eyes.
Who you’ve managed to own
And discard
Simultaneously.
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