Destitution

Was it eleven years ago?

Or maybe 10.

We met in one of those small shops by the roadside.

Under the hot sun in the moist weather, you looked like an angel.

Captivated by your beauty, I stood in awe.

Was it seven years ago?

Or maybe six.

When we sat in your front yard, on those plastic chairs you complained had been with your family for too long.

I sat with you as you lamented about poetry, and how it always eluded you when you needed it.

I wasn't quite paying attention though. 

Because I thought you looked beautiful under the moonlight.

It had to be three years ago?

Could be two.

We walked down the aisle.

Holding hands and wearing smiles.

When I looked at you, you radiated happiness and I loved you all the more.

We said solemn vows and that night shared careless promises in the form of kisses.

It was a night I would remember in death.

Is it today?

Or maybe tomorrow.

You will walk out the door like you did last night.

Only it would be permanent.

Into the hands of the woman, you met last month.

We wear the same perfume and you give her the same flowers.

And you look at her like you never looked at me.

It makes me wonder.

Is she replacing me?

Or was I always the replacement?

Maybe it'll be two years?

Or maybe three.

I'll get up from my drunken stupor.

You'll probably be married to the other woman.

Maybe it'll be a valentine like this one I'm writing this letter. 

Or maybe it'll be my birthday to symbolize my rebirth.

But I'll stand up, and I'll wear a different perfume.

And I'll never take a flower from another man.