There is a poem in you somewhere,
between the freshly inked rose and your rockabilly pose.
Your core once rested between my index and thumb,
I should of known the sound of your happy goodbye was-
the sound of a starting gun.
The transition from a Werthers original to a Ferrero Rocher-
swooped the hipsters into pastel shaded tornadoes,
and now the party goes wherever she flows.
Underneath your sweet layers I know there is a crunch-
where the aesthetic really does not matter all that much.
They say the language of the lovers is in the books-
but for my sake, I pray it’s in your venomous dirty looks.
Now the warm city glow is just the amber in a-
dysfunctional traffic light and I know there is no
direction left for me to make this right.
In a darkened club with leather sofas covered in vomit-
there’s a piece of paper with my name scribbled on it,
and there was once a girl who clamored with excitement-
to find a vodka rinsed pen,
that same girl erased those numbers and never dialed again.
It broke something when she declared herself busy-
the girl who could not help herself to once miss me,
debated with myself where it all went sour-
but sometimes you can be on time for something
and still be late by the hour.
Rachel Henley 