i’ve been missing my keys
leaving things unattended

why do you always want to
keep the ones you find?

my heart has been welding
into the iron over and over
again…

and i’m slithering over the
metal shackles building
chains again…

but the blacksmith hammers
only while it’s hot and he
vanishes to cool it off at night

i’m never the same

so i’ve finally gotten the formula
right and i have the burning
flames to thank

i have always been a keychain
i should not let go, this time

when i’m 40 and gray
will i get to marry a
“wizard”
or a
“superstar”
or a
“CEO”
or will i get to choose?

i’d take a
“floater”
or a
“pauper”
(or just anyone
who-would-love
-me-forever)
any day.

i’m learning how to live
as an old maid, solo.
as long as i have
my guitar
and my dark
chocolates
i’ll be all right.

i’m crazy
from hanging on.

i’m giggling
like i’m married.

i’m singing
like a little girl.

they were just
four words

i read them in
two seconds

but, those four words were
written by the aussie lady
i’ve been galling for more
than two years now

so, i would like to think
of those two seconds as
progress being made

or the devil punishing me
for being stubborn

you cannot always have
things your way

and even if that
isn’t the case

it was a nice reprieve
from my boring life

nice enough to remind me
that sometimes the journey
is better than the destination

until i finally see
how that impalpable
stamp on the passport

feels on the palm
of my hand

your overblown progress reports
give me the headache

and your squeaking elevators
bother me

but, i love the shrinks who work
at your info staff

and the fire-eaters at the 3rd and 7th floors

(they tell me the truth even if it hurts)

i love the chikka-google-coffee-
newsweek-meetings spree

(and the ostentatious conferences
you asked me to cover)

i love the way your logo looks like
the moon on a mountain peak

(and the mysterious word-jumble
often mistaken to be the name
of the murdered actress)

i love how i sound intelligent
whenever i say ‘bottom of the pyramid’
and ‘millennium development goals’

(but “congrats!” and “good work!”
scare me…)

why can’t i wait to leave?

“who the **** is this?” i asked myself
as i pulled off the cork.

it was clive owen again.

this wasn’t one of those fake hollywood
actors on the big screen. he was real–
with genuine feelings. he wanted to
marry me.

“over my dead body!” i shouted and
that’s when a bolt of lightning smacked
the windowpane. roaring, thundering
bolts–they struck whenever i am agitated.
clive was choked off against the wall.

“okay, okay…but please love me,”
he whimpered.

“no way!” i told him. i grabbed my guitar
with the broken string and smashed his
face shooing him back inside the bottle…

i poured myself another glass of
yesterday’s wine and rested my bad leg
on the table. i’d spent hours watching
“closer” and “sin city” the night before,
finding ways to kill my boredom.

today, i broke clive owen’s heart.