Fun Betty

365 rotations to make it once around the sun,

I felt the curve of every one,

Each sharp corner like quicksand,

Made of mud.

The year started with a breakup,

And ended with one.

Spent the days in between,

In a state of,

Unravelling.

An (almost) house,

A (hypothetical) bandaid baby,

An (emoji) engagement ring.

The jewelry I used to wear,

Around my neck,

Now floating,

Somewhere in the Pacific.

The ring,

I had chosen to decorate my left finger,

Nestled now,

Perhaps,

In the crevice of a couch cushion,

Transformed into money from a pawn shop,

Or deep in your dresser drawer.

I guess I should have believed the superstition,

And chose a different finger,

The problem was,

I so badly wanted to be claimed.

There were so many chances to get us right,

But you never took me seriously.

I waited as patiently as I could,

Sat in the bleachers of my own arena,

Fantasizing about how good it would feel,

To make it down to the floor.

I understand Carly Simon now.

You were the clouds,

I was the coffee.

Son of a gun.

At 32,

I had forgotten how my feet would feel,

The morning after,

Dancing,

Singing,

Laughing,

All night long.

Or what a sunrise looked like,

A nap from 12 – 5.

A hand in my hand,

Spinning me in circles,

I made it to the stage.

Last dance,

Last chance.

At 31,

I was forgotten.

I was as good as an obstructed view,

At a sold out show,

Without any popcorn in the nosebleeds.

I was the empty plan,

You make at last call,

Drunk at the bar.

When I blew out my candle this year,

I didn’t make a wish,

Just a promise.

I’ll never go back.

In time,

In age,

Or to the 400 section.

And that when one day,

You grow up,

And come to look for me,

I’ll be on a stadium tour.