Not About You

I was in a singer songwriter mood.

Reading Austen without contempt,

some pages,

over and over.

Laying on dew-soaked grass,

relishing the thrill of each blade on the back of my thighs.

But it wasn’t about you.

Gushing over silver screen sex scenes.

Holding my breath with Diane Lane

while she reminisces on transit.

Savouring the mouthfeel

of Ghiradelli mousse by refrigerator light,

on a Tuesday.

But it wasn’t about you.

Skipping meals and flirting with crop tops.

Diamond studs at my lobes that had lived

undecorated for decades.

Polish, the colour of Bordeaux

on my fingers and toes.

Dancing in the kitchen to relevant hip hop.

Waking up to Pornhub and not reading comments,

Scrolling past hardcore for amateur content.

Blushing at every touch,

even my own hand,

running through my hair.

No: it wasn’t about you.

Opening an empty inbox,

Compulsively -- like a junkie.

Not screening calls,

answering on the first ring,

wishing,

I hadn’t answered at all.

No.

Smoking unfiltered cigarettes

and eating dinner from a can.

Forgetting to wash my hair and

unplugging everything in my house that makes noise.

Punishing the sun with my absence.

How dare it shine.

Sharing tears with every surface that will have them.

This time--it might have been about you.