Instructions to My On and Off Lover Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Sing to me your quixotic song— the kind caged birds will understand like the dark-green voice of the olive tree signaling wind when every leaf hangs exhausted from last night’s storm. Ignore all wounds inside my wrists; tattooed souvenirs from the first time my spirit gave-way to weakness in a lifetime too long to endure without you. Never do anything sudden. The relief of predictably, no matter how disastrous is something I’ve grown accustomed to. An unexpected good ending would surely be the death of me. Even now, the thought of happiness is almost unbearable; like the smallest wing barely opening to gusts of air from yesterday’s flurry. And when I feel unbeautiful, adore me anyway with impossible devotion, made more precious by your constant threat of leaving. When it’s over, tell me you need a cigarette, pause by the door with a half smile, ask that I bring your jacket over. After you’ve gone, place your hand in the right pocket, where you’ll find your tobacco rolled with a small handwritten note; my litany of reasons why you’ve left. And when you light the tip, draw in the smoke as words burn like tinder on your tongue; just enough to keep you from turning back while I listen for your footsteps through the tangle of bare branches again and again and again.
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