A black dress clings to her country road curves
as if God Himself painted it on her skin
the same way He paints sunsets.
In any case, I don’t doubt it,
she knows Him better than I do;
bums Him a cigarette outside the diner,
splits a stale slice of cake,
red velvet.
A cross around her neck,
she wears black, in mourning,
not in who she’s lost,
but the waste of time.
I wait,
watching if she’ll cry when he leaves
and she doesn’t;
doesn’t even stand at the door
and watch the taillights disappear into the tree-line.
She’s thigh-deep into a book,
biting a ridge off the nail of her pinky,
and if she’s trying to come off disinterested,
it’s working.
The love of her life leaves and she doesn’t flinch.
“It’s not my regret to have, baby,” she replies
when I ask, hours later, if she’ll be lonely,
“I make a point not to miss
anybody that won’t miss me.”