I'm not really looking for anything serious, he says,
and his smile could break your heart in two right there.
Neither am I, you reassure him,
it's the first lie you tell yourself.
You just like to be with him,
you snatch up the minutes he gives you like hours.
You wear a smile on your face like lipstick,
bright red, highlighting the shape of your
eager mouth, and your laughter is shrill,
not very much like yours, but then nothing is.
And later, you let him kiss you,
and you let him feel your hunger,
but not too much, because you don't want to scare him
with how much you need him.

And when he starts missing dates you'll wait for him,
even though you don't mean to, but you will,
because what if you leave and he's there now,
or now,
or maybe now.
You'll never know, so it's best to wait,
and you'll keep on waiting, you will keep on
showing up, because it's what you do best
even though he isn't showing up for you.
One day when you're waiting, you realise
your shadow is a little less,
your soul is a little less,
you are a little less,
and you look up and there's a mirror,
and you see the sadness in your eyes,
buried deep within, because you were trying
weren't you? Trying to be someone you're not.

Years later you're sitting with a group of friends,
you're older, hopefully wiser.
Someone loves you, someone who was looking for
something serious, and found it in you.
And there's a girl who reminds you of you
sitting alone at a table not too far away,
looking out of the window, not really
drinking her wine, starting every time
the door opens, and someone in your group
says she's pathetic, because she's waiting
for a man who is never going to show,
and something breaks in you, you find
your voice, which you've never really raised
all of your life because you were taught
it's not what you do but then you do it.
You raise your voice, and it's barely yours,
it's shrill, loud, you're speaking to the room
and the girl hears, everyone does.
And you say stop punishing people for falling in love.

And you stand, and you walk to the girl,
and you reach down and press her hand,
and in that moment of sisterly contact,
you hope she realises that one day she will be different,
she will be fuller, more, better,
and then you leave, your head held high,
your shadow more, your soul more,
and when you go home you look in the mirror,
and you see yourself there,
and you know in your heart that you've come home
in more ways than one.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Mayan, in the year 885 AF.