Unsorted
The Question
You asked if I could use a hug,
the question turning to frost —
coming from my right,
hints of car exhaust.
Like bees visiting flowers,
already smelling of honey —
I said, no thank you.
My voice trembled,
though it roared.
Like grinding metal,
gears finding their seat —
I felt my heart shift,
suddenly out of neutral.
I pushed the gas,
not looking in the rearview.
If you asked how I’m doing,
I would smile wide
and say —
of course I’m fine.
But if you asked me to come back,
to try one more time —
I don’t know what I’d say.
Would I test the fit?
I’m afraid I donated those clothes
when you left.
I wouldn’t stay to fight,
spit, or cuss —
my clock has fewer hours
for that kind of task.
How much have you unlearned?
Because it bears repeating —
I am not the same
as I was when you walked away.
My forever is longer now
than it was before.
My standards sit higher
than barely off the floor.
I can’t be second place,
or a second thought,
or a moment replaced.
That’s just how I operate.
I know I’d give it long thought,
much longer than I’d like —
but what can I say?
With all those years lost —
I’d take another bite.