avoision

Knowing that she will always
and forever be seeking more,
she instead settles - or insists,
the same way, over and over -
for less; she cannot be
disappointed if she knows
it will not happen, all along.
His failings come as no surprise.
And when he tires of seeing
in her eyes the reflection of
his inadequacy, he will make
that same cool, easy decision:
he will leave her, too.

The surprise visit,
the scratch at the door.
His hands in her hair
as he fits his mouth to hers,
knowing -
does he need to say it? -
that he really missed her,
he did not only miss
her attention, her interest,
her thumbs on his shoulders,
kneading away the stops
and the cars and all the rest
that, in her presence,
recedes into perspective.
He missed her:
low voice, wry humor,
gaze that may truly see
through him. The warm hand
on his neck, the open door.

If she closes herself away,
quiet and above, then
she can stop seeing - the
reminders, everywhere -
what she lacks. If she remains
alone, blocks the door and
keeps it out, then it will not
echo in her head. If she
sleeps, if she drinks, if she
writes, it will wash over
and not flood through
the place she's meant to be.
All she will feel, then,
is the drying salt
and not the weight of it all,
always. Maybe she can breathe.