The relationship was already over – I knew it,
maybe he did to, but I doubt it –
he wasn’t that smart, but it wasn’t
the first time I dated
not that smart.
Nor the last.
It was waking up with my dress —
soft black crushed
curled on my collarbone,
under shoulders —
I had said no, tucked my skirts
just so: I don’t think I trusted him, I
knew something was up.
It was his hands
that sealed the deal. Cease
I never said goodbye.
Na/GloPoWriMo Day Twenty-Nine asks us to write a meditative poem.
This is as detached as I’m going to get.