May 12, 2014 § 3 Comments
He was always a player—
So I played him in my head,
rearranged the words he said,
told myself he would mend
his heart for me.
But boys who play don’t like to grow,
he was Peter Pan without the gypsy soul,
a sailor without a wave to row.
A man who’d always love anybody,
and everybody—for a short time,
’til his heart grew restless—then
the words, and love would all unwind.
He swore there’d come a girl one day
who’d whisk his child’s heart away,
who he’d give his ever ever to and build their Never Land of love.
But I knew better of his kind,
so I said goodbye. . .