I’m not going to be the one
waiting for you at the altar
but I will be the one
who surprises you in your thoughts
when you’re sitting in a boring cubicle
ten years from now.
You’ll think of my dresses
and my worn out boots I wear too often
and ask yourself,
“Dammit, why do I still think of her?”
We never had a boring moment,
even when we didn’t know what to do
on a Saturday spring afternoon
when you didn’t want to finish papers
and I didn’t want to write my stories.
So we just laid on your wooden floors
and listened to the conversations your neighbors had
and the footsteps of your roommates.
I won’t be the one who shows up
in your bed ten years from now
with apple cinnamon oatmeal
because like I once said,
“I hate that shit.”
But I will be the face you see
at night when she’s leaving kisses on your neck
and all you can think about
are my lips,
my thighs on top of yours,
and my touch
you can still feel down your spine.
I promise you that you’ll still
crave the peppermint taste that lingers
after the many pieces of gum I liked to chew.
I will not be the mother of your children
nor will I be the one that gets to meet your parents
but hell I will be the one you’ll still think about.
I bet you’re going to wonder who’s met my crazy mother
and whose name comes out of my mouth
on some nights.