Incompatible

I used to fantasize that every car door closing, the bright headlights passing my window, meant you were coming home to me. Trudging through the snowy yard to softly come inside, cast open my door and crawl into bed with me, right where you belonged. I always thought it’d feel like the last piece of the puzzle had finally been dropped snuggly in place.

I guess I didn’t look hard enough to realize your jagged edges were no match to my soft forgiving curves. Although we may have fit together, I was always marked with deep grooves of regret and insincerity. And you wore your infidelity on your neck as my heart grew weary on my sleeve.

Now when I hear a car door, I wonder about you. Where you are, who you’re with, and sometimes I swear, right before I fall asleep, I feel you next to me once more.