Your macramé owl collection sits
in a room of pearls and twigs.
You own so many beautiful bottles
but all your ships lay ruined within.
Your fleet sailed in a U-Haul caravan
with artifacts of your age.
There was a shoebox filled by letters you saved
but now you wish they’d been lost in the mail.
Your boyfriends, they all delude you
writing songs about your hair;
Smelling like lavender tea candles
and a nine year old bottle of beer.
So many of your boys have compared you to
sitting maidens in museums,
and how each of them wish they’d been the varnish
to protect you from the last three hundred and sixty two years.
None of their metaphors were good enough (for you)
so you locked yourself in your room.
Sobbing on your paperweights of glass, copper, and clay;
Feeling you only really knew yourself
through the paperback lens of Beverly Cleary.
Take out your guitar from the faux leather case
you painted by number to resemble a Salvador Dali.
Pick at the strings and feel the tingling
of the past plucked from your spine.
I was laughing when I first met you,
but now I’m curled like a dried out sprout.
You were smiling when I asked you to stay,
but now you seem sad you are my one.
Are you sad you are my one?