A black dress clings to her country road curves
as if God Himself painted it on her skin
the same way He paints sunsets.
In any case, I donāt doubt it,
she knows Him better than I do;
bums Him a cigarette outside the diner,
splits a stale slice of cake,
red velvet.
A cross around her neck,
she wears black, in mourning,
not in who sheās lost,
but the waste of time.
Ā
I wait,
watching if sheāll cry when he leaves
and she doesnāt;
doesnāt even stand at the door
and watch the taillights disappear into the tree-line.
Sheās thigh-deep into a book,
biting a ridge off the nail of her pinky,
and if sheās trying to come off disinterested,
itās working.
The love of her life leaves and she doesnāt flinch.
āItās not my regret to have, baby,ā she replies
when I ask, hours later, if sheāll be lonely,
āI make a point not to miss
anybody that wonāt miss me.ā