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It’s been almost a year
since you entered my life
causing chaos
and laughter and destruction
Today
I realized
you are a relief
in a way inexplicable
My heart has eased
its aching
enough to be
to be confused by easy emotions
and images of closure
enough to be
glad that anger is
not the only thing
you were good for
He writes about me
because he knows I like it
or to get out of his own mind
though I can’t imagine mine is a relief
I’m redundant
I fret and marinate and I make
things dismal
things the heart-weary understand
but tire of
I tire of me
too
My writing is compulsive
not compelling but compelled by
compulsion
I know it’s right
a version of what’s right
anyway
If I wished at all
I’d be content from here on
From now until then
It was cold out, and he came to cook for me. The warmth of the oven did not compare to the warmth in my feet and gut. We pretended to work together as an excuse to get closer, him letting me help, me wanting to impress him. He told me cooking wasn’t hard, that all one had to do was follow the directions. I told him I was book smart but not cookbook smart. He laughed. We watched a show with sexual innuendos and commercials for natural male enhancement and laughed. In the meantime, we sat closer together until my right shoulder, arm, and leg was definitively against his left shoulder, arm, and leg. And at the end, a touch. Warmth from his fingertips to my leg and then tingles all over when his hand shifted. Awkward pauses at the door, what to do. Finally, a hug and a light brushing of the lips. A simple goodbye, though hopefully not for long.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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