About You

Your scent still lingers about the room,
dancing in and out of the tousled sheets and
cologne sprayed pillow cases,
which only hours earlier caressed both our faces.
Your side of my bed is now empty,
though the imprint of where you last lied,
where your hand clung to my chest,
where your breath clung to my neck
remains.
And it pains me,
to think that last night, like the one before and
the one before that,
were just moments between friends.
Just moments.
Just friends.

I should make my bed,
but instead,
I’ll just lie here,
in the underwear I let you borrow and never washed,
in the wake of something new,
something borrowed,
from you.
But this isn’t about you.

Your half smoked cigarette, now cold and peeling,
stands on the ledge of my window, kneeling,
stealing gasps of oxygen from the breeze which barely
touches its side,
and then with one slight gust of chilling pollution,
the solution, suicide.

So the Malboro Man jumps, four stories
to his brothers, the others,
collected in a mass grave below my window sill,
half smoked, charcoal colored butts --
Dumb fucks.
See the secret is to stay lit,
to keep breathing,
to inhale the oxygen,
to fill the lungs,
‘cause when you burn out,
no one wants you anymore.

And tonight you’re out with him,
the one you want,
the one that excites you,
and stimulates you.
The one that just won’t burn out,
no matter how hard I wish it.
And he knows I want you,
‘cause I do,
but this, my friend, isn’t about you.

I didn’t write this poem to apologize,
or to bring saltless tears to your eyes,
I didn’t do it to make you feel guilty,
or to win you back,
or to change your mind,
or to make you feel something more than you already do.
This poem isn’t about you,
and it’s not about the way your morning breath makes me horny,
or how the heat you give off melts my heart.
I won’t mention how your lipless smile knocks my knees,
or how I think you are so beautiful --
words that will never reach your ear,
out of fear,
they’d never reach mine.

See, he’ll have your body,
you’ll have my heart,
and I’ll have your half smoked cigarette,
clasped between my lips,
sucking desperately for one last hit,
or perhaps,
a taste of your breath.
And when you’re done with him,
when you come home at 3:11 in the morning,
all tired and fucked up,
all fucked out,
you’ll crawl into your side of my bed,
let the cologne sprayed pillow caress your head,
and the heat of your body warm my feet,
and the smell of your instincts stain my sheets,
and you’ll roll over and clutch my chest,
and I’ll pretend to be asleep so you don’t have to explain,
so you won’t have to mention his name.

And I know I shouldn’t let you in,
but the dirty little whore inside is determined to win,
win you over and back, for his own selfish gain,
anything at all to lessen this pain.
But I’d die before I ever told you,
that I think I’m right for you,
that I am the one for you.
That I like you.
That I want you.
That, in fact, this is about you,
about you and your smell,
and your warmth and your smile
and your fucking cigarettes,
which carelessly strew themselves outside my window,
as you carelessly stand below without a clue,
as to what it means when I say this isn’t about you.