Calm Before the Storm
You parked your car and walked towards me for the last time
when I shivered from the air, icy, and your glare.
You, dressed in khakis and a pleather jacket,
adjusted your aviators, chrome colored, and looked down at
me.
My reflection in your lenses looked small and my expression,
turned from pale and placid to blank stare.
Your eyes you repeatedly refused to reveal
cut through me when you yelled
you betrayed me, you
broke my trust.
I stood there with each word stabbing me,
and I spoke nothing of value, I offered nothing but
exhaustion
while, in silence, the trees dressed in green stood
and people walked by watching.
Only when you puffed up all six feet two inches of yourself—
your teeth showing, your neck erect, your shoulders broad,
your arms out, your legs stiff and feet firmly placed in the
gravel,
did you feel comfortable in your skin for the first time.
For the first time you asked me if I was afraid of you.
Each word you spewed at me softened when I said no.
Your body deflated and I heard air expel from your lips,
the ones I wanted to kiss so badly before,
and with fists stuffed in your pockets,
you said see you later.
©AAC 2014
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