Never Satisfied.

Never Satisfied.

You say “I’m his because he likes perfection.”
But honey, you’re lying to yourself,
he could never be satisfied with perfection.
Because on the nights you are out with your friends,
head thrown back just so to the tune of
“Oh, that was so funny, say it again”,
he extends his hand to a girl-model
in ruby lipstick and mile-high heels.
And as you skip down the boulevard,
holding hands with your nearest and dearest
and cocking your head at handsome strangers in boutique windows,
he is snuggling deep within the covers
of another lover’s bed.
When the sun rises tomorrow
you’ll wake to your empty bed,
stretching and yawning
and dressing in the early morning dark.
But he will wake up much later,
wrapped in the tight embrace
of a skinny twenty-something,
still wearing her precious heels.