Let the Paint Dry

I’ve sanded down the old me,

gritty and loud,

exiling old flames

like a one-woman crowd.

The walls are now satin,

a calming display,

so I sit on my hands

and let the paint dry.

River's in a cave,

or a trench,

or a trance,

while I’m in my purple dress,

doing a solo romance.

If I fold, I’m weak;

if I don't, I’m a lie,

but the contract is signed

to let the paint dry.

It’s a sticky business,

this growth and restraint,

waiting for my River

to acknowledge the paint.

Eddy and Tom are my only allies,

While I relax in this bed

to let the paint dry.