The weight of her dress
The context of love and beauty interchange
I feel love when I hear her name and want kiss her face.
I don’t know how I can give you children with your dress hanging below your waist.
I speak to you in fluent English and it’s a surprise because the girls around here don’t speak it.
But when you’re in my bed, my hand is so weak it can’t unfasten your pants.
Instead we lay there and pretend the ceiling is entertainment.
I never recalled us making this arrangement of being caught between friends and love
From a shallow eye of mine.
Maybe in a few years later I can pour you a glass of wine to unwind and put the kids to sleep.
I was so sure I had it laid out but I’m not all that I’ve been made out to be.
I’m a writer who never celebrates an anniversary.
And every time I wish she wasn’t still around to see me move on
I’ll leave the bedroom light on in the morning so when the sun goes down
You don’t have to get up.
I’ll turn my headlights on as I begin to give up.
With only a cigarette left, I’ve got a weight on my chest developed from something much stronger than stress.
It’s something that started when I attempted to lift up your dress and I couldn’t.