Flashback to my mother rousing me from my reading to ask me,

-Do you mind if I wear this?

In her hand is lingerie from my ex that she's mistaken for a chemise.

-uhh...sure.

I sit and hope she doesn't wonder about the stains as she irons away. His only legacy now on my mother's body.

----

He tells me everything except that he loves me. I'm endearing, I'm charming, I'm dreams and prayers and more. I fit, I smile, I laugh, I vibrate, I understand, I enchant, I read, I write, I move, I shake, I relate, my god, oh baby! I relate, I more and more and more. I love otherwise, life itself, I, me, my have a flaw.

But

can you see...

i am i am i am i

not loved?

----

my first love,

fit like a glove,

how was I to know he preferred mittens?

He didn't leave without the infamous guilt absolving words:

-Lucky bastard, the man who marries you, damn lucky bastard.

Fuck you darling, when's it my turn to get lucky?

---

A recently acquired friend visits my sister and I. He thinks we should be in a sitcom. My hair a mess, sitting Indian style on the restaurant couch, turtle neck halfway up my face, jeans frayed, I mention traveling to Italy in a months time for the summer.

-you and I should get to know each other more, he says with a meaningful glance.

And in the same breath he tells me that the Backstreet Boys really know how to sing despite their boy band image. Smile politely and imperceptibly nod every once and again. It is only our imagination that makes time stand still. It too shall pass.

---

So, I did get lucky

except I don't believe a word he says.

How does one take a manufacturer of pretty words at face value?

I hold what he does best,

that which attracts, seduces and renders me helpless,

as a shield against him.

I feel afraid feeling safe with him.

My future has been flirting with his past,

streets,

re-named

re-paved

come alive as I walk by,

four cities too late,

three golden opportunities too early.

He chips off old blocks

and catches me unawares.

I tread softly and fear floundering,

losing myself in him

blissfully and peacefully.

Not again, not with this one.

Can I?

The Evil Knevil in me says,

What the hell? Why not?

What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.

Do you think it's as painful for a phoenix?

---

Well, I suppose they can't all be you.

Does every woman have that one relationship that was so good,

that it got even better 6 months after it was over?