for a moment in another room

women always want to know why,
as if knowing reasons could
clot the wound repeatedly picked.
slumped over in your chair,
wishing for something that isn't there
you keep calling, keep coming by,
because you're driven, driven.
you want him to say
the right thing, reaffirm what was,
apologize for what is now,
like a good laugh you can share,
tell your friends.
it's funny, isn't it? turns out
my heart was broken by me:
twisted a few sentences, a moment
without the phone ringing,
knowing where he was.

maybe you had an idea;
maybe you thought you knew
who he was, who you were with him.
do you remember that
you had a definition
before those years?
you weren't always the reflection
in his big, pretty eyes:
you were that woman at the party,
having one glass of wine
because you drove there,
and you'd take yourself home after.

maybe you had an idea;
maybe you thought you knew
who he was, but your heart
projected what you expected.
no man is a blank canvas
for you to fill with paint;
no man is a canyon
to fill with your voice.
each is a book open, and
you were in the chapter previous:
it was a good read.
he has a storyline going,
winding around the years,
and he didn't mean
to hurt you, and he's tried
to stop you from crying.

women always want to know why
as if knowing reasons could
clot the wound repeatedly picked.
do you feel the breeze
from the open window in the hall,
or are you staring at the door?
it's closed, locked;
he's not home.
the men at the bar
want to buy you a drink,
and they ask you why
you aren't enjoying yourself.

for a smile, a laugh,
a moment in another room,
from your thoughts
breaking your heart,
isn't it worth everything
to unclench your fists
and stop standing in the tide?
you could be that woman
at the party,
having one glass of wine
and looking out the window.