photo by Vivian Maier

If You Decide to Leave Your Wife

I spend hours talking myself out of you.
Then I see you again, and it starts all over again,
and all that talkin I was doin,
meant a whole lot of nothin.

Here we are.
You and I at the same bar.
This time, your wife is here.
So pretty. So petite.
Nothing like me.
She sits closer to me than you do.
Throwing pretty eye daggers over her shoulder
as you mind your manners.

I know she knows.
She knows I know she knows.

You see,
even though she came with you,
she’s here tonight for me.
She’s come to protect her home
from the big bad wolf,
who, with a big deep breath and a great big smile,
can blow it all down.

But in my defense,
She doesn’t know that I spend hours
talking myself out of you.
I may as well be an evangelical preacher
shouting out messages from god on a street corner,

because, 
all this talk goes unheard.
All the words,
They’re all just words.
Making me weak.
Maybe it’s just the heat.

I stumble around this place in a daze.
I dream and I pray, that you and I might be real one day.
But, if that happens,
people will get hurt.
They’ll be mad as hell
and blame me for everything.

Sometimes you have to hurt the ones around you
for true love to be free.
It’s worth it in the end.
I know that. 
You know that.
She knows that, 
doesn’t she?

Let’s just say that you decided to leave your wife.
Would you find me a suitable replacement?
Okay, hold on.
I’m getting carried away, 
Where was I?

That’s right.

Here we are again.
You and me at the same bar again.
Your wife’s gone home to take care of your family,
and you are standing across the room from me.
People all around us and in between.
You bob and weave, trying to get my attention,
while I write little poems down on beer stained napkins.
Do you have any idea what’s flowing out of my pen?
What’s coming out of my heart?
Are you standing there
watching me
realizing
that I may be the girl 
who can turn your whole world around
and tear you life apart.

If you counted up the hours that I talk myself out of you.
You’d be counting for days.
There’s no point really.
All the math will just make you weary, 
and leave your eyes blurry.
Because, 
every time I see you, 
it starts all over again.
Every time I see you,
I fall back in love again.
And all that talkin’ I was doin,
meant a whole lot of nothin’.

I know that.
You know that.
She knows that.
Doesn’t she?

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