"Love doesn't have to be a part of it" she says,
dismissing me with a casual flick of her wrist.
She takes another drag,
tries to pull the smoke deep into her lungs
but I can see that most
just floats in her cheeks.
I stare at her fingers,
the way she holds the stub
like she's playing house,
pretending to be someone
she's not.
She intrigues me.
She's far smarter
than I first gave her credit for,
absorbs the world with an intensity
matched only by her need
to prove she doesn't care.
I watch as she fires bullets into the air,
blanks that graze the surface
but never break skin.
She's working hard
to convince me,
I can see it's wearing her thin.
"Love doesn't have to be a part of it" she says again,
fierce lips anticipating contradiction.
But I know that arguing would be pointless.
From where she sits,
trim legs crossed on the carpet,
the only voice she can hear
is her own.
I can't hold that against her.
It's just a matter of perspective.
The horizon is closer from up on this chair.
I've been sitting here
a little bit longer;
my eyes accustomed
to this pale somber light.
I lean back,
a smile spread across my face,
the one she accuses me
of saving just for her,
and watch
as she finishes her smoke.
When she's ready
I'll be waiting,
a hot cup of coffee,
two cream, one sugar,
resting at my lips
Why do I do this?
Tear myself up
into a thousand white flecks,
like snowflake confetti,
falling to the floorboards at your feet.
Am I waiting for you
to put me together again,
tape my tattered edges to form some semblance of me?
A better, neater package
bound in genuine leather.
You'll erase all the segments that don’t fit,
remove all traces,
re-write your ideal version.
Or perhaps you will grow tired
and sweep me up instead.
Hide all the pieces in an urn
somewhere upon your mantel.
Take me out from time to time
as you see fit.
I can already feel your fingers run through me,
my papery skin falling limp between your fingertips.
Pages worn from too much handling
and not enough care.
Kasia A. Tilander lives in a small northern town in North Bay Canada, not quite north enough to build igloos, but certainly close enough to feel the frosty sting of wind whiplash in from the northern hemisphere. She writes because nothing has ever felt truer to who she really is. Currently, Kasia is compiling a collection of poems for an upcoming anthology and is busy at work on her first full-length novel. For more information about Kasia and her works, please visit her Myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/kasiaslifesexandchaos, or email her directly at ktilander@hotmail.com.