The Other Woman

The Other Woman

The other woman is a wilting plant.
Neither time nor rain can heal anything.
His cigarette burns orange in the dark.
Ashes land on wet concrete.
Smoke curls from his mouth to my nose.
His knee is warm against mine.
The rain smells like a swim feels,
tingling lightly on my skin.
Tingling like your arm around me,
in Jim's basment in Blackburn.
Time and rain can heal all wounds.
We were sitting on towers above the others,
on yellow bags of salt stacked high.
The curbs were too low for our spirits.
"I don't think you're the problem.
But I think you may be part of it."
The dark smoke of secrecy surrounded us,
our faces as bright as night.
He ripped open my chest
and hid my heart in my stomach.
But Miss Magnolia didn't care.
One day she'll see where she was,
in a tangled, triangular web.
She'll ask him why he did it,
to find out why he didn't.
Je suis l'autre femme.
My phone begs for his voice,
and my fingers itch to oblige.
Itch like his hands on my skin,
or around a pack of smokes.