In an effort to continually practice writing, here is an on-the-spot about possession:
If you’re under the impression,
that he is your man,
you cannot have him,
he is not yours,
he’ll call you, yes, if he’s bored
or wanting of something,
the kind of thing
that stopped making young girls blush
when there existed a rush
but his honesty, in state of obscurity,
is indeed obscured,
(trust me, I tried for years to have him cured)
until I learned that I could love him,
but could not have him,
not neatly wrapped in clover like a heart,
lying more an art
not yours, not mine,
To each and everything, his own
and I should have known
I should have learned,
but I thought he was mine.
I thought he loved me.
And maybe he did.
Who am I kidding to think I know him
well enough to say he cannot belong to both of us,
and whoever comes next,
who’s to say he’s not just in it for the sex,
or that he loves you,
and that he’s yours,
until he finds me again,
as my man always does.