I left roses on your windshield,
slipped chocolate in your pocket;
you took it as a desperate plea for a wedding ring
but I just wanted somebody to take me home.
You colored me a picture of a turtle
on the kids' menu at the burger joint,
twisted my hair around your finger,
gave me a cupcake with a candle for my birthday;
it was just enough.
But every time I called you,
you had dishes to wash,
leaks to fix,
engines to rebuild;
I found contentment in a bottle of wine
and a late showing of "A Room with a View,"
but you showed up at two in the morning
hungry for my manicotti,
I lit white candles
and pretended this was something I knew how to do,
I wore perfume,
put on lipstick,
I even wore pink.
The last time I saw you,
you made me take out my poetry
and read you every word,
then you leaned in close--
my stomach was a brick
and it was in my throat--
but it never happened,
you leaned back on the sofa,
crossed your arms in front of your chest
and asked me why my poetry was so sad.
I stopped leaving flowers
on your windshield,
stopped slipping treats
in your pocket,
I had a bottle to drink
and a bus to catch.