White Space On Paper

Hoping everyday there will be a vicissitude in your thinking. Irritation and repose. Waiting. For a text, a call, reticence. White space on paper. Empty. I drank your wine. I reveled in your game. Laid nude and bent over your couch while you created rudiment on the floor beside my foot. Vessel. Held my breath, eyes shut while you finished yourself. Watched you cook steak on the grill. Men get hungry or sleep, you were hungry and I have told you; I don’t eat red meat. You tell me to retire myself from cooking because our duties are equalized though our genders are not. I ate the steak. Copious house, sizeable paycheck, exiguous man. Microbic consort. Missed appointments. “You should have reminded me….” you say But I know anything important is worth remembering or writing down. I am sullen. In life I am compensated to remind men of various appointments. “Could you jot this down…….remind me on this date….” Though it’s not my berth, my disposition to succor puts me in this bearing, and in my own dash, I don’t find gravity to prompt a man that we have a reservation once every few weeks outside his couch. I won't ask again for what I demand in whole; time, allotment, an epoch. Time spent unbent over leather couches in precarious manners, minds soused with wine. I am letting you go. I am detestable, inconsequential. You are pulchritudinous and astute. White space on paper. Someone is waiting to write me a poem.