(I originally posted this poem last night, but wanted to make a few edits to it that felt necessary and real.)

He says he’s stretched thin

and needs alone time;

he can’t see me tonight

but is tomorrow fine?

Tears well in my eyes

as I sit at the bar

with an empty seat

(I realize he never

said he’d be there

I just wanted it so—)

my laptop in tow

the words on the screen

comforting the lonely

inside of me.

Why am I sad

when I can’t have my way

when the man I need

decides to stay

at home, not come out

to see me today.


It’s a chance for me to wonder

to look deep inside

the complexity of me:

where the bullshit resides.

There’s a familiar dampness

that sits

where my heart should take flight

thumping and bumping

into the night:

But fuck!

the wetness of lonely

sits like a stone

swells in my chest

as I sit here alone.

‘What’s your ideal day,’

after I ask him the same

via text, I say:

sleeping in

no alarm


to wake up for.

Coffee in bed

snuggling with

the man I adore. 

An autumn run

hot shower to follow.

Driving somewhere new

tasting something

different, worthwhile. 

A full glass of wine

at the end of the day,

 a fireplace,

a laugh,

a memory to stay.

These fantasies burst

in the throb of my heart:

I can rewrite my story

I can choose to restart

the ignition, the fire-

of self-love


I can be alone for the night.

Vulnerable and Lonely

do not have the power

to tell my whole story.

With a sigh I sweep closed

that laptop in tow

shut off my phone

step out in the night

to walk home

all alone.

And in that moment

he walks into my arms

beneath umbrella and rainfall

in the lot ‘mongst the cars.

He whispers to me,

“You are not alone.”

His lips find my neck.

His beard tickles my chin.

He takes my hand,

drives me home.

And, together, we walk in.


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