Like a parcel or letter, sent to the wrong address,
doomed to sit on a dresser for months,
until the dust grays the paper and the
stamp becomes illegible. Finally,
gathered up with the flyers and
gas station receipts, the out-of-date
catalogues and ancient shopping
lists to be tossed without thought
onto the first winter’s fire.
Like a bouquet meant to change
the course of love but dumped, forgotten,
into a corner, cursed as petals and
leaves dry and crumble, leaving the
dull brown stalks protruding from faded,
once-pretty wrapping paper.
Consigned with a grumble to the week’s garbage,
head-down in a heavy plastic bag and
smothered in trash: the dinner trays and cans,
the decomposing vegetables and ham that
went off in the fridge. Out to the curb and gone.
Unacknowledged.
Unwanted.
Unrequited.
There are plenty to choose from, they say,
wagging knowing heads; if they don’t want,
it only means they weren’t right, it wasn’t right…
it wasn’t right but what was wrong?
Not pretty enough?
Not smart enough?
Too provincial?
Too high-maintenance?
Not beautiful or clever or creative?
Too much effort?
Not the right colored hair? Eyes? Skin?
Not funny?
Too funny?
Too young, too old, too fat, too thin,
not the right shape or height?
Something touches the soul and for a moment
life blazes into being.
Then it’s gone and the fire goes out,
and the rekindling takes so long, so much looking,
can that feeling really be only felt on one side?
How is that possible?
Words touch mind.
Heart aches for chances gone.
Soul weeps alone.
