Seashell

There is
something
to the idea 
of riding the wind 
instead of stubbornly 
trying to change its direction.

I walk to the ocean's edge 
find a seashell in the sand 
I toss it back to the water. 
It doesn’t belong to me anyway. 

someone like you

I feel small
even contemplating the idea
that eyes like yours
hands like yours
kindness like yours

could consider me.

Eyes that linger
like they want to see.
Like they want to remember.

Gentle hands,
intentional.

You remember details.
You ask questions.

I wonder
if someone like me,
flawed and spontaneous,
direct,
could attract someone
subtle and
tender
like you.

washed away

I open the drawer
where I keep the lingerie
I wore that night.

I look to 
the bottoms you took off
to enter 
without foreplay or affection.
Without protection.

I asked you to wear a condom.

I stand alone in my bedroom.
I hold the shorts to my nose
the satin smells like your cologne.

I'm reminded of the blind hope
the unfulfilling physical touch.

I feel mixed sadness
as I place
the satin shorts
in the washing machine,
reverently.

I wore them to feel
sexy,
desirable.

Like an object,
you take,
you play,
and return me
once you’ve finished.

I shut the lid
turn away from the wreckage,
wishing desperately to redo
the night you came inside 
looking for a way out. 

Light

He witnessed 
what I had to offer,
it wasn't his to receive.

I still wonder
as I make room for the night
what it could be like
if he shared his own with me.