She falls short on the luck of a crutch,
hunched in search of the answer from above
she meddles in the remembrance of a touch,
the laugh or smile or the look of love,
she never bent forward in honour of him
too afraid of falling vastly in him.
As if his answer, was hers and loosing herself
forgetting her power backed by words.
she gently caressed the wounds left by men.
The ones that probed at her intellect and courage.
Figuring she can take more hits than comfort.
Sista had it going on: goals set and intellect.
she rarely needed anything but hug.
But like smog
the only thing resonating is the residue
they left between her thighs,
as she submitted everything,
thinking in her was the only place they will ever hide.
I wondered why her eyes shined like water…
Then realized she cried more
and poured glasses
and asked others to drink it as water
then maybe they could taste where she was coming from.
Often times we overlook the present
gift giving is often associated with meaningful dates
birthdays, holidays and an occasional pivotal celebration.
Tangible something to cherish.
This woman only requested a shoulder to cry on,
a hand to hold forever, a heart to cherish with her own
instead she got shredded love letters
and broken loves songs.
If she were me
I’d write her a letter, tell her be patient.
Speak only in positive tones and keep the flame strong in her spirit.
One day the right one will match it
with open arms be ready to catch it.
We have something in common this woman and I.
I’m fearful each time the sun goes down,
of losing that hope
or closeness once felt
sometimes it comes in hours, minutes or seconds.
Then suddenly it’s faint.
I’m heard inside my own spirit
hoping maybe he’ll hear me
and respond with a message
often times, we play suckers for love,
but suckers get caught in a bundle and hug
a thought or
maybe a comfort of recognition…
Often forgotten, when the roles reverse.
At the notes he rehearsed,
be patient I reply to her.