mornings.

And I don’t know
how I’m supposed
to say “no”

to someone like you
to someone who plays
my favourite Bright
Eyes album when I
can’t sleep

Connor’s voice smoothing over
the day’s disasters whilst your
fingers stroke my back

to someone who calls me
a perfect girl when I’ve
given up on perfection
at least a year ago

to someone who winks at me
when I scrutinize myself
in shop window reflections

But then I wake up on
Sunday morning with thoughts
of thick pancakes and warm
syrup and strong coffee
and sunlight

And I see photographs of her
who everyone calls beautiful
silvery hair
bronzed skin
framed in gold

Me – not even a
congeniality
prize

I see the perfume of her
who everyone loves and I see
the gift she gave you two
birthdays ago

and I can’t ignore
how she isn’t me
I walk over to
the mirror -
you’re still asleep

and it becomes
pretty damn obvious
it isn’t me

I give up on the pancakes
and the syrup and the coffee
and the sunlight and on
spending the day with you

I leave quietly
with a sunken heart

I get on the bus
and listen to my
favourite Bright Eyes album.

Alone -

The way it should be. I guess.