The One

He was a smoky dance-floor...
the razzamatazz of a Saturday night...
the slow jazz of waking late
on a Sunday morning in a sloop
down by the river...the one wore
jeans, strategically torn – a beanie
‘LOVE SUCKS’, in garish letters
stitched on the front – the one
made wild swans out of paper
serviettes...the ones we watched
lift, and take flight over a field
of catalpa trees; rained down
on our heads – pods that cracked
under our feet...The one

I made butterfly shapes with
on the wall at dawn...
the one with ideas, bigger
than him – moved to the city,
then offered me the view
from his penthouse pad
as if it belonged to him – sky
and all; the one where I knew
it was over - soon as I walked in.
The one said to me, I could have
anything I wanted, for a price...
the one I walked away from
that night; the one I heard
the stars sing – for free.