She sits at the bar after close
and cries. He's left again without saying goodbye, he's left
with another conquest and left her wondering why.
Too often I’ve witnessed, from
across the room, the unfolding pain behind those eyes of jade and her
shoulders weighted, uncertainly braced for an impending and
inescapable doom. I can nearly hear the demons who whisper
about doubts and mistakes, of future failures and consequences yet
faced.
Again, tonight I will follow. I
will sit and listen, sip and swallow until we reach the end of the
bottle and she bottoms out clenching the pillow. Again, tonight
I keep vigil upon a quiet bedside corner until her crying eyes are
lidded and she sleeps; until the light of morning or her savior
through the window peeps and I can take my leave as soon as I am
able.
Understand this is how her Tomorrow
slurs into Today. Her troubles are insurmountable, it's just
easier to run down the street to Tuesday's bar and become one of the
rabble; To the drinks that drown all frets and fears; To
cloak the years of choked back tears; To the men she’ll meet
and lay beneath on that bed with one pillow and no sheet.
Too often I’ve watched, from across
the room, the witnesses shake their heads in disbelief as tho it is
she who cannot see the simple actions or ample solutions which will
bring her relief; As tho they've walked the distance in her
worry worn shoes and developed a stoic resistance to her everyday
blues.
Some snicker and sneer in judgment,
hypocritical of her promiscuity (tho their terms are much less
eloquent). They sit atop ivory pedestals of insecurity and
condemn her as socially deviant:
"Buy her a shot. Give her a beer, wait as she makes the circuit, eventually she'll come near. A kiss upon her neck. A hand upon her waist. You’re just another short cut and she's not a moment to waste."
"Buy her a shot. Give her a beer, wait as she makes the circuit, eventually she'll come near. A kiss upon her neck. A hand upon her waist. You’re just another short cut and she's not a moment to waste."
Let those people say what they will.
I've watched her face at night as she slept beneath her doom clouded
skies. I recognized the worried rest and I knew all too well
the plight of rising to the possibilities of a new day, of a new way,
and from its inherent responsibilities, how to sheepishly shrink
away.
She’s a quest to stay young and
fun. And maybe she shouldn't run, but there's time still enough
for mistakes to be made and penance to be paid. Time still
enough for her to grow old and cold and turn her frowning
condemnation upon the next troubled generation.
