habituate

she reveals her hand when least expected.

she’s grey sky against concrete and roses.

she’s suspect; cautious and careless in the same breath.

she’s silence in the morning sunrise over daffodils.

she figures me out and I don’t like that one bit…

she’s cryptic and obvious while straining to find new direction.

she’s a pink slip in the hand of a nervous teenager.

she’s killing me slowly. again.

she avoids the questions while spilling her truth.

she rapes my memories with keen observation.

she breaks and binds while reaching my need.

she’s the sleet in this snowstorm.

she’s flint and fire and an unlit Marlboro.

she’s the tulip bulb I forgot to plant.

she’s ashes and stone and freshly dug dirt.

she’s paintings and sketchbooks and a note in my song.

she’s invisibly rife with virtuosity.

she is a blind man wandering his personal darkness.

she’s a tenor singing of the setting sun.

she’s the last firefly before the break of dawn.

she’s oil spreading quickly over too many teardrops.

she’s an offering on an altar to a forgotten god.

she’s transitioning into the woman I knew she could be.

she’s buckling under the weight of my expectations.

she’s sympathy. and symphony. my personal  “Ode to Joy”

she’s writer’s block the night before the deadline.

she’s everything I love about sarcasm.

she’s beaver pelts or beads or whatever currency women like her trade in.

she’s alien to this world.

she’s nothing like us.

she’s my reason to live this life.

and the next.

she’s love.

she loves.

she shakes her head.

she smiles.