She Needs A Wife

My lavender love,
aching amethyst that starts in my core, and crawls up through my body,
until my mind is conquered and quite mad.
There is a violence to your violet stare,
that look from across the room as I iron your shirts, and recall the time we were in a bar, and I told you, with no hesitation, that you needed a wife,
and you gave me that same look,
a gaze that gives an indication that my body is no longer my own,
and that my soul is on borrowed time.

Look at me now,
all asunder,
cooking your meals,
sewing up your shirts when they tear,
ironing with sweet lilac tears in my eyes,
because I miss the sadness that came before you,
I knew what to do with it,
but this? This gentle joy that trickles down the day,
from sunrise to sunset. This, I do not know how to handle, because I’ve never had it before.

I dream of a boat, in the breezy hands of the ocean,
fast and loose,
with drinks flowing and my honey at the helm.
It never sinks, and it never rusts,
it just parades us for the spectators we find at sea,
and I cook your meals,
I sew your shirts when they tear,
ironing with sweet lilac tears in my eyes.

You’re sweet to me,
home at a reasonable hour with hydrangeas behind your back, and a wicked smile,
and then you kiss me,
while my back is pressed against the warm oven,
wrinkling your shirt,
as if you enjoy watching me iron.