I still sort of swing around
you are always there, writing.
It makes me kind of mourn the whore.
the Lady of the Mountain.
The openness, the hippie town
goddess act.
You were hoping to come back home.
Having chosen the wrong route.
I don’t believe in love but you do,
Just like you believe in swooning wordly on demand and friend to the lesbian bards and anti-social flirt boys.
community like you with
fresh vegetables and farmer’s market mama
how tired you are.
Much more tired than me.
sour in my lane
only when I smell leaves do I miss you
or when I take pills at hotels.
since I also made you look a mirror in the eye,
enjoy your wrinkles and
your wine.
Tenacious She 