Twin Flame

Barefoot in the driver's seat,

legs crossed against the steering wheel,

I remain parked outside my lonely

apartment, sucking on a cigar

and savoring the burn on my lips.

She is at her house, abusive

husband and three darling

dogs to run after. My throat

is sticky and closing, words

swallowed in smoke, streaks

like residue down my cheeks.

I must be a masochist,

a self-proclaimed twin flame

suffering over the silver-plated

ring she wears even when

she tells me she does not love him,

even when he hits her, berates her,

every time she still chooses him.

Not for love, she tells me, but

she cries when she threatens to leave,

and I cry when she decides to stay, forever

a second choice to even the woman

I've loved for every lifetime before this,

to even the soul that I share.

Maybe I'm the one who puts myself

second, who hurts me and leaves me

to rot. I can swear up and down that

I love me, but chaos speaks louder

than poetry, half scribbled in the sliver

of flickering streetlight peeking

through my blacked out windows.