The Good Girl

No matter how much you resist,

there are days when love settles—

like the thick, bitter sediment

at the bottom of a coffee cup,

the one where ashes were flicked carelessly,

and the last stub of a cigar

still glows faintly, stubbornly.

There’s no one left

to hear the indistinct mumble

that barely makes it past your throat.

The words you type—

and delete.

And type again.

And delete again.

Never sent. Never brave enough.

Never ideal enough.

You want to be drenched—

but it hardly rains anymore.

Dust hangs heavy in the air,

sits on your chest,

sieves through your breath,

chokes your longing.

And all you want

is for the ache to dull

just a little.

You tell yourself

you want to be calm.

And calm—

is what you become.

Like the sea

gleaming under the gaze of the sun.

So still. So reflective.

But the sun never sees

the turbulence below—

where only the deep-dwellers

curl and uncurl

their saltwater dreams.

You remember—

you were not raised

to look for love.

You were raised

to surrender.

To provide.

You remember their smiles,

and you want to smile back.

But you cry instead.

You sit straight.

You meditate.

You read.

You create.

You plan.

You watch.

You sing.

You dance.

You laugh—

and still the day

never quite reaches you.

And so you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

With that reckless, magical hope

for a day you haven’t met yet—

a new sun,

a new song,

a poem without the old ache,

a red dress maybe,

a world you could live in

with an old love,

finally returned.

An ode to the good girls