Used to be he
was my heart's desire.
His forthright gaze,
his expert hands:
I'd lie on the couch with my eyes
closed just thinking about it.
Never about the fact
that everything changes,
that even this,
my best passion,
would not be immune.
No, I would bask on in an
eternal daydream of the hands
finding me, the gaze like a winding
stair coaxing me down. . . .
Until I caught a glimpse
of something in the mirror:
silly girl in her lingerie,
dancing with the furniture--
a hot little bundle, flush with
cliches. Into that pair
of too-bright eyes I looked
and saw myself. And something else:
he would never look that way.
