Intertwined with hope, we won
a chance to see the ripples
of our actions take place,
out a message so faint.
We nearly missed it.
She was who you really spoke to
when you said those
honeyed lines, longing hanging
on your breath,
and yet I was beguiled.
I would not be taken a second time,
not down the path of
ambiguity, tearing out my innards,
if you asked, to realize you’d
only wanted to be wanted.
The spider stirs from her small corner,
thinking only of herself, weaving
lies upon each other, but I implore you, wait.
As for the woman that lives in
dreams, doling out love
to love struck men, I am not her.
She is cunning, and beautiful,
and I am just me.
I obsess about the way I sound,
try to emulate some grandiose
notion, as if I have a clue what
I even mean.
I’m not really pretty, but I remind you
of something serious you once had,
and that scares me
because I can sense it too.
Real things mean that complications
will arise, and the spider loves
I’d approach with openness and honesty.