Written in the Stars

Written in the stars...
him and me, I said, but beware
he’d be playing with fire, and
I burned easy. He didn’t know it,
yet, but pretty soon he’d leave –
meet a girl not half as crazy as me;
prettier by far – tattoo on her arm,
but one he would approve of.
She wouldn't have mood swings –
talk in her sleep, have a penchant
for strawberries, marzipan, and
pink, sugar-mice...a hang-up
about men’s nasty, naked feet
and he’d wine and dine her,
and lay her, and I’d go back
to one-night stands – to blokes
don’t know, nor do they want to,
my last name.

Yet for now, it excites him
to bed a girl writes stories
about him; thinks I understand
his loneliness because I live
with my own. Any day, though,
I’d be banging on his door –
small hours of the morning...
two, three or four, Mogadon
down the road; burning up,
hoping I might find the calm
after the storm, in that clichéd
‘haven of his arms’, and he
won’t let me in. Only tell me
‘Cathy...go home’.