PenWomanShip

I waited for you again today,
twisting my napkin into pieces,
drinking coffee until my hands shook
and the waiter shot me evil looks
while my head hung low.

This is getting embarrassing.
All of the bartenders and maitre d's
know and smirk about you
tenderly kissing other women.

Perhaps I was wrong.
While you never made promises,
I thought we had an understanding.
You showed up at my door,night
after night, directing my hands with gentle
firmness, whispering inspiration through my hair.
Did you not cherish those van Gogh nights?

I've entered psychotherapy to learn
why a woman such as myself
would lean one so fickle as you.
The kind doctor suggests you
may have "a deep fear of commitment."
We will never be happy, yet
I continue to thirst for the elixir
you only spare when convenient.
It appears we were made for each other
in Hell's deepest bowels: you, who delight
in being wretched, and myself, a willing
partaker in self-inflicted misery.

Human nature can only bear so much;
you have pushed mine past its boundaries.
No woman possessing an iota of sense
would have stood being subjected
to the way you have treated me!

So when you show up at our spot,
my dear Muse,
the one to whom I opened my heart,
mind and pen, I may just not be waiting.