I wrote a poem about him once. It was long, dark, and twisted. Like our relationship. It wasn’t very good. Also, like our relationship. This is not a poem about him, it is about the one thing he can never provide.
He was fun, we were fun. The love was deep; it’s still there and will never go away. But there was no peace. Never any goddamn peace. I was always ready for the next woman to reach out “woman to woman,” or for the next two days of silence because he “needed a break.”
We move on his time. He expects me to be ready to pick back up where our love left off no matter how he has treated me or how long it has been - a day, two weeks, six months, it doesn’t matter to him. He expects these things and I oblige.
My heart has always belonged to him. The sight of him stirs something in me that no other man has achieved. His touch brings excitement and comfort, but never peace. But I guess that’s the excitement I crave; heartache that is sure to come are the butterflies I feel. And yet, I still yearn for him. I always will.
Maybe one day, he will bring me peace and I will write a beautiful poem about him.