A Prose Poem
she doesn’t come wrapped in bows boldly standing at your doorstep–she creeps into your thoughts unannounced and ready to test your loyalty to the image of her you have tried hard to forget.
she carries herself well–bust intact and perfectly pressed into a pushup bra, eyebrows threaded without a flaw. she blows her honeyed breath in my direction, flashes a brief smile–I catch her pearly whites before blinking.
I want to place my hands in places not meant for prayer. I stand unsure of where to go when she is near. should I carve a path? should I move my mark?
she is a mystery to me–showing me what I could have, but keeping me at arm’s length. I have all these inches yet I yearn for a mile.
I am a patient person . . .
I whisper to myself.
I am a patient person.
Originally published via Simily.