The Second Meditation

"I'm not your love" I hear you say

and it's strike three for disappointment

just like all the times before

but without the smooth maneuvers,

games, and petty tricks.

Queue the slow cry,

the salt of sweat and tears,

sugar, spice, and summer jazz

mingle with the selfish loss

of what we couldn't have.

And so I search my checklist:

disappointment? Present.

Frustration? Damn straight.

Anger?

Where are you, Anger?

Tough to be angry when what I knew

was right's all wrong. "It's for the best"

and "we'll be friends" echo twice again.

Words! Such bullshit words,

but this time, heard from you,

I know that just this once,

those bullshit words are true.

No bets or bluffs, no poker face.

Just all cards down

and nothing really lost.

And that nascent spark of anger

drains away.