Impasse

What is it exactly that you want from me?
What word? What look?
A sadness in your eyes like rain, your empty hands waiting.
Always waiting in vain.
Lately I find myself wordless before you, though
my frustration sometimes tries to translate itself for you.
In those moments, my angry words slash like knives,
knives that cut out your core
and pare the green green fruit of your heart into slivers.

It could be so easy to please you,
if I wanted to.
One word, one look, and the storm in you would be calmed.
But there is a stubborn streak in me, my love,
and I am no Penelope, I am no patient maiden,
willing to face the storm alone,
waiting for you to come and fill my days
while I ravel and unravel the years I have left
like skeins of so much useless thread.

I am only a flesh and blood woman with my own storms,
my own wants.

The End

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