Or I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It.
Echo lives in a basement apartment,
walls softened with photos, posters
and paintings--but only one of him,
out of the way by the linen closet.
Funny how often she needs clean washcloths,
how frequently she replaces her pillowcases
these days. Especially in early spring when
daffodils are everywhere and she can't help
but buy a dozen, two, five, fill every vase
she owns with sunshine, golden as his hair.
All of April is spent blogging, posts titled:
Men Who Can't See Past Their Own Reflections;
How to Spot a Narcissist; Your Voice Matters;
and Actions Speak Louder than Words So Leave.
She doesn't tell them about the flowers,
about his picture, about the showers
when she turns the radio up, belting
Secret Love a half-second off, never
on time. She doesn't tell them
that she knows she won't get over him
until he gets over himself, that she
forgets to eat when one ache feels as
sharp as another. Better that they
dream of freedom she'll never have
than die every day of love forever
unrequited.