She had convinced herself

there were better men to suit her

moth like temperament.

More appropriate for her vibrancy

and wit.

Over several days she had grown

weary

of the click of his belt buckle,

how his teeth tore rabidly

at his fingernail skin

and his tendency to belittle her

visions of the future.

Visions already planned and

produced, projected onto pale, dying

white walls.

She wished and wished.

Wished a switch into existence,

one which tripped the lights,

blew the bulbs –

plastic shattered shards

thrown into disarray,

and restarted her heart.

She was convinced there was a man

made for her fiery pits

and emotional debt.

Made to touch her

once,

twice

and soothe her woe.

Woe which spirals like a wind chime

in a hurricane;

she twists, contorts until paralyzed

beneath the bedsheets.

Heavy as lead,

left for several hours or days

in flux

where love is…