Love poem: May birthdays

Love poem: May birthdays

May is the month of Springtime flowers
But when you leave, the atmosphere is sour
And I’m alarmed
That you don’t believe in a higher power
When it’s sitting across the table from you

I was listening to a podcast where a guy said he went on a date with a woman that was exactly “his type,” so to speak, & he was driving home realizing he couldn’t pursue her because he didn’t want to fall into the same old patterns.

I thought of that statement when I saw you angrily crushing the buttons on your phone
That you call “a stupid machine”
Just like he did
Unreasonably angry in disregard for how beautifully my lilac, dreamlike eye shadow was blurred upon my bare eyelids
Not suited for the evening where we were supposed to celebrate your birthday
Which felt more important to me, than to you
I’d spent the previous evening looking for the most suitable birthday card in the CVS pharmacy that’s a few neighborhoods away, imagining they had better cards than the one several streets away from my residence
Half-wondering if you would display it
Half-knowing it’d be tucked away in a drawer

Do I want to be that girl?
Do I want my eye-shadow to go unnoticed?
Or the sparkle in my eyes to be diminished when you’re preoccupied with something external to yourself?
Do I want to write questions instead of statements on my own poetry website where love is the theme and I’m somehow not the main character?

Hollow and concave
Rich with vengeance
Who your enemy is, is probably unknown to you, me, or the population at large
But the gap I fill, gets bigger every day
But my body does not
So I sit in it, hardly occupying the space
That I wish I could cover like a desert storm would

Unreasonably empty for the evening
Watching you almost punch your steering wheel
Is this where chaos lands me
Is this the dream that I have been chasing down
Like I’m unsure of myself
Don’t know what to do with myself
Have gotten beside myself

Sitting at my desk
Writing, waiting
Wondering what my father would say
If he knew my teenage antics
At my sharp age of near-thirty

Every woman has a man that brings her down to a lower degree
I don’t want to know who I am beneath
The sweet girl I am when I get ready by seven in the evening
To celebrate a birthday that is more important to me, than to you

May is the month of Springtime flowers
But when you leave, the atmosphere is sour
And I’m alarmed
That you don’t believe in a higher power
When it’s sitting across the table from you

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