I packed my hopes up in cardboard boxes. I am noticed sometimes. Not with a “wow you are so beautiful” but sometimes with a pinch on my butt or a sexual innuendo.
In between silence spells, I think love exists.
I don’t hear the words often, but I like to believe they still exist.
Sometimes, I imagine profile pictures and phone calls to my momma.
I even go so far as to fantasize emotional and physical safety.
In my most quieter hours, I find myself imagining not imagining you lusting over another woman.
On me, but not on top of me.
My pussy gets the creditable reassurance,
The “how can I be with anyone else”,
But my heart rests lonely and unsure.
“How was your day”, turns into not good enough.
Phone calls missed never call back.
I go and look at the beautiful flowers. I buy myself a bouquet.
I stand in front of the mirror naked.
I slide my hands up my body, I outline the shape of my waist the roundness of my breasts, the heat of my lips.
I climax to the idea that you are capable…
If you only read the words, you miss the sound of the music.