Time Being

She sits at the windowsill, waiting for the kind of lover who keeps her on the line and on the edge. Texts read, no reply. As the sun sets on the west-side, casting the shadows she's tried to avoid she gazes past the pine. It's a quarter after seven. Two hours, too little, too late. Every car she hears in the distance belongs to him. Leaning her head out the window to send a wave, a wink or maybe, this time a whistle. Still her driveway remains barren, except for the two doves she's nicknamed and sings to. And if that's not enough---dinner's now cold and the tea she infused with wishful patience, longing and mostly love is, too.

You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

She is and will always be
Tied to the Moon.

Thus she grabs her heartstrings and pulls them deeply, slipping again into new pink lace. This time it's for herself. She doesn't judge the love she craved before. She chooses instead to send her love whirling through New York's impossibly big city.

She tries again, she still dares to love

To wear the lace
To complete herself by herself.