I looked from empty glass of wine to first sight of you.
Ascertained at once that possession of heart,
I could, with no effort, have.
Lip gloss deftly applied,
tilt of head exact
and seduction by intellectual design.
How easily you came to me.
Since double digit age,
I've had the uncanny ability
to look into strangers' eyes
and know if their devotion
I would have.
Never a question of if, only when.
Perhaps your falling in love with me
was never as much a guarantee,
but as expected, it came to pass with gentle ease,
as first I knew it would.
Emotional conveyances secured
with little effort on my part.
Gift of love bequeathed,
but no longer am I interested in retaining it.
Uncertain why it is so,
but for me the challenge is in the falling,
not in the one I felled.
I crave the challenge,
not the prize,
the race, not the finish line
and for you,
I am sorry.
There was a moment, if only brief,
that I imagined you would be "the one,"
though several numbers which preceded you
no longer count to me.
And I have grown weary of stacking
loves like fractions,
one number atop another,
with no desired sum at end.
I want to cry, but never do,
as memorial for what
could have been, but this routine
has happened far too often
for compassion to take rise,
though I recognize that it should.
So for now, I will allow for you to whisper
your tomorrow hopes on sleepy pillows
before I slip out before sun rises
to curse me for the bastard
things I've done.
And I'll pray that you
won't hate yourself
for the pawn that