The Waiting Room

The tears of twenty one angels
collect in the gutters
of your grandparent's old home:
a silent storm.

You said if I'm
still alone
at thirty-five we were meant to be
old cat ladies together.

Okay.

You spoke of the future like
we were living in a waiting room,
counted all my lovers
and when you ran out of fingers
got nasty.

You fell off the face of the earth
and slept in a stranger's car.
Dangerous woman -
risking more.

The truth was something you wouldn't share,
devotion something I wouldn't give.
We butted heads for nearly a decade,
only sometimes lovingly.

I left the want of eight years on my tongue to dissolve,
tasting of familiarity.
No longer love.