Four writers for the price of one blog
My soul isn’t in my smile
or my touch, however warm.
It’s not in my hair, or my kiss
or the hot press of my thighs.
It’s definitely not in what lies between them.
My soul is not in my gaze
or in my laugh, however riotous and sincere.
It’s not in the swing in my step, or the perfume I wear
or the timbre of my voice.
My soul is
every single word of each thought I wrote to you
You saw, felt, heard, tasted the best of me
unfiltered, uncensored, naked
eons more intimate than sweaty bodies entwined
we touched upon something that must be given freely
and can’t be faked–
Or so I thought, yet I’m here alone.
You don’t owe me a thing I think every night
lying in a bed that’s voluntarily cold –
I can’t stand the feel of another
it’s a cheap mockery
a weak echo
of the warmth that I once conjured to give me faith
even when I didn’t know your face but…
You don’t owe me a thing. No promises were uttered.
You don’t owe me a thing? I ask myself
Not even an explanation, apology, even a goddamned goodbye
or a fucking fare thee well?
The high road has never felt more hollow.
With empty hands aloft
and downcast eyes overflowing
my reveille each morning and my lullaby each night remains…
You don’t owe me a thing. There were never any guarantees.
You don’t owe me a goddamned thing I repeat to myself
using up the remnants of the faith I once wasted on you
hoping it’ll sink into my stubborn head
praying it’ll seep down into my chest
— so empty after all that could’ve been turned to naught —
and quiet the surprised cries of the broken heart that knows too well
you’re a day late and a dollar short.