pulled the rug from under me

left me sprawling on the floor

dispensed with the courtesies

heading straight for the door

 

he's gone now I'm over him

he'll do the same to another

its my fault, I ought to have

listened to my poor mother

 

that touch yet wands my face

his hands so large and strong

my future is unknown, I'll be

left without him for so long

 

that ripe smell on his clothes

the paperback he left unread

upon my bed his heavy pillow

the many words I left unsaid

 

knocks on the door thrill me

wondering if it might be him

through each day he recurs

the target of my every whim

 

other men seem so lacking

his assets were undeniable

if only he's not wandered

been an iota less unreliable

 

repining on his favorite rug

it might be a concrete wall

my hot tears welling, truth

is, I'm not over him at all