She forcefully asks why I dwell in what can never be, all my life I have begged and wept trying to help her see clearly as a child I did not dream but hoped instead assuming bad always gave way to good, faithfully relying on the promise of new beginnings she said came with each day's sun. Cracked woman, I do not miss what life could never have been rather what I thought it would make me.
I have spent this life tirelessly playing every part when I believed to have found one that finally complimented hers, well into its fifth residency, she'd turn and disappear in a twisted retreat all causing nothing short of misery.
But I know we fold our arms neatly across our chests in the same way when we sleep curled up on the couch under the grey blanket that smells of her dusty floral perfume; in the kitchen she despised she confessed her needs, trusting me (passively) with a forgotten and long-awaited dream she prayed it would see itself out in someone else if not her; I longed to complete the play in place of its lead. I knew the moment would be forgotten quickly, my tears pooling, waiting to be wiped away callously but for a moment she held me close and whispered I was her favorite.
promises to keep
She told me not to trust a man who gives promises freely like the flowers she leaves to rot on her bed stand but made me promises that resembled vows all to reassure in frequent times of need. She could never love three and always tolerated one, easily breaking the holy vows made to me; what words can be trusted out of man or woman if a statement spoken as a vow became a promise somehow?
