Last Woman Standing

I was happy. I was content, and
for all intents and purposes I was
more than alright with the superficial passing’s
of the never ever lastings
that were friends, or lovers or both.
I had a way of being. A way of seeing.
A way of feeling. A way of dealing.
It was just me,
in my symmetrical world with
candles and jazz, and scents of no one.

I needed a model. You needed to feel alive.
I fed you wine, and tied red ribbon to your wrists.
Knelt in front of you, purposely gauging your reaction
to the cross cross puppet I was turning your wildness into.
The black ribbon looked incredible on your thighs.
Fear and the fading shyness looked like endless time in your eyes.
Hazel and green, all at the same time.
You were awkward, not with me. But not with your body.
You were drunk, and I was amused.
Two universes both taking up just as much space,
colliding on impact with very little grace.

That night, I noted every detail. It became a cataloged number
added chronologically to the beat that started
inside my chest.
The rest…  was residual storm.
I noted your mouth. Your consistent eye contact.
Your hands and how feminine you were,
even with your punk hair, and black eyes.
The beads and the tattoos, the nervous laugh and the
moods that changed and snapped in the most
familiar and beautiful way.

Many a visit. Much silent wishing.
Until the park. The damned park, where something exploded
and the contents spilled over both of us. Unloaded.
The irony is that all photographs of us, in our happiest
moments, in the rain or mid – play,
were snapped by the woman who your heart
was melted into. Forever and a long day.

That night in the rain. I laughed,
but there was pain. All I wanted was to push you
up against the nearest wall, in the dark
and tell you with my hands and mouth how much,

… how much

I needed you.

The day at the park. You played with my toes,
blew bubbles, and climbed trees.
You did hand stands, and I remember
watching you and thinking ‘How free…   is she…?’
You weren’t. Not for long.
Angus and Julia Stone became a theme song.
Your mascara ran.
Your mind lashed, and I got in the car
in suspense, of the ultimate crash.
It was close. Around the corner. Not far.

I saw you.
YOU.
at you worst. At your best.
I came to fetch you from a public toilet
with another girl
half undressed.
You were so angry with me.
and the maths stopped making sense.
I was bleeding out. I was waking up alone.
I was leaving messages, and getting a distant tone…

Our last day together, there were no clues.
You were wrapped up in me and I was wrapped up in you.
I had let all my walls down.
Called off the dogs, and the circling Ravens.
I had let go, and accepted
that this beautiful creature who looked at me with such
raw confusion, and love
was mine.

We kissed, and I dragged you by the back of your jeans
off the couch and onto me, on the floor…
Not knowing that when I kissed you at the door,

you were never coming back.

not until the day you brought your public toilet friend with you
to trade and swap what we had left with each other,
like it had been a simple slumber party.

I came third. Not even second.
I thought about that often. Your words were so cruel.
You found someone who would accept you for everything that you are.
In a girl who let you drink until you were unhinged,
and then gave you the keys to her car.

Do you remember? Phoning me?
“I need you Sam. Please come and get me..”
and me walking away from you after buttoning up your shirt and saying:
“I cant compete with her. So I beg you just forget me.”

You showed me love,
and then you took it away.
Like a cat that likes to kill it’s prey
with hope.

I have no anger anymore, and no ill wishes.
But I was chocking on the unsaid words and the unscratched itches.
Love is never a beautiful thing,
not unless someone is tied up and giving in.
But, it was you who walked away that day
and I take my hat off to you darling. Well played.